We Are Legend II: Balm in Gilead
by Lacadiva
Summary: AU/Crossover - I Am Legend: Neal, Peter and El journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey and winter's coming fast. So is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal is attacked and bitten. Can Peter pull the trigger before the transformation begins? And what new horrors await in Vermont?
1. Chapter 1

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 1

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar sooooo much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story. All rights remain in the hands of Jeff Eastin and USA. It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. _Au Revoir_ was not enough…

 _NOTE: For Halloween I thought I'd try and do the long-promised part two to this story. Please don't get mad at me for not finishing other stories. It'll happen. I'm a freelancer, and we have long bouts of employment followed by longer bouts of unemployment and all you can think about is where next month's rent is coming from. Tiny pockets of reprieve provide too little time for fanfic writing, but sometimes, you have to follow the passion of the moment. This story was one of those moments. I hope you'll think it's worth it, and will review and let me know._

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU – Crossover with I Am Legend: Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming fast…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the infected. Can Peter pull the trigger to spare his friend before the painful, violent transformation begins? And, is what awaits our survivors in Vermont safer than what's beyond their protective walls?_

~WC~

The young doctor's assistant pushed the microphone stand closer to him, scraping the old wood table. The thick black cord pulled taut – that was as far as it could reach. Close enough, if Neal leaned in just bit. Movement caused his aching shoulders and back to hurt, to burn with old agonies and recent wounds. Every part of him felt pain, but he was growing used to it. At least he was still alive.

This was still a mystery to him…as well as to his new hosts.

He rubbed his arm, which was aching and seriously bruised not from his ordeal, but from the many needles they had used to extract blood from him since his arrival. They'd taken every kind of sample imaginable, from saliva to urine, even hair and skin samples and the hair from the mountain-man-like beard he was sporting upon his arrival. They swept up and kept his fallen whiskers after he'd shaved.

The entire community was in an uproar because of his arrival…and survival. While they hadn't told him anything so far, he was grateful that they had taken his claims seriously and not ousted him yet, or worst shot him dead.

He touched the black foam windscreen of the microphone gently with a finger. Not because of a desire to check the integrity of their somewhat slapdash technology. Deep down, Neal just wanted to make sure all of this was _real_.

 _Was all of this truly real?_

The warmth of the small wood framed room (he'd grown so used to bone aching cold)…

The smell of burning wood emanating from the small, old fashioned, pot bellied stove…

The comfort of the sturdy hardwood chair under him…

The smell arising from the of cup of instant coffee sitting within his reach...

The feel of clean skin, clean clothing, taut bandages on his wounds, and warm, dry socks inside the old borrowed Timberlands on his feet…

His long wet hair was combed all the way back and plastered to his neck as it dried, and his sensitive skin was still prickling from shaving off that thick, two-month-old beard.

He closed his eyes briefly at the memory of the humble but hot meal he ate ravenously less than an hour ago. It still rumbled in his sensitive yet satisfied stomach and still lingered on his taste buds: boiled potatoes and chicken, field greens, pan fried bread and a cobbler of canned mixed berries sweetened with honey straight from the comb. He had not eaten like that in months.

There was a small but inviting cot in the corner made with clean white sheets, two army blankets and a semi-puffy pillow waiting for him.

And there was an unspoken promise that the nightmare might actually be over.

At least, he hoped it was over.

He also hoped this was not the start of a new terror. These people, these seemingly good people who were claiming to be his new benefactors were playing their cards so very close to the vest that Neal had no choice but to be suspicious. He had to play his own cards just right if he expected to survive.

"Just speak naturally," the young woman said encouragingly. "We don't care how you tell the story. It doesn't have to be in order. We just need the facts as you remember them, everything you remember about your ordeal out there."

She was a natural beauty, this woman, and pleasing to the eye. Not an ounce of make up was used or needed to create the gentle contours of her richly dark face. Her dark eyes were wide with wonder as she gazed at Neal, as if she were in the presence of someone both famous and notorious. She was wearing all white, like a doctor, with a well-used stethoscope dangling around her neck. She didn't introduce herself as a doctor, but gave only a first name. Neal forgot it moments later, so overwhelmed was he by the day's unrelenting events, and so desperate to rest, to sleep…

He was overwhelmed by everything from the moment they reached the gates of Gilead (the name given to this Vermont haven/research facility, the place promised in all the radio broadcasts). They were ordered by shouting, heavily armed military guards in environment suits to surrender their own weapons and backpacks and lay on the ground face down.

They were thoroughly searched for hidden weapons, then sprayed with a foul disinfectant that burned their skin and eyes temporarily.

The guards of Gilead questioned them, then separated them, forcing Peter in one direction, Neal in another, Elizabeth in yet another. She cried and fought when they took the baby from her arms, wrapped him in a fresh blanket and carried him away without explanation. Peter nearly got himself shot when he attempted to intervene, but the officer in charge, face hidden by his environment suit, begged Peter and Elizabeth to allow it, and promised they would all be reunited once they had all been cleared by the Senior Medical Officer, and there was no sign of infection in any of them.

Any act of aggression, they were warned, especially disobedience, would be deemed a safety threat to Gilead, and they would be, at best, ousted. At worst, they would be executed.

They lead Neal inside Way Station D, they called it - a tiny windowless, dirt floor room made of unadorned dry wall and lit by a few dim Coleman lamps.

"Strip," he was ordered by one of the environment-suited guards.

He did, hands shaking as he peeled out of his dried blood-caked hoodie, then fought with shirt buttons. When he removed the threadbare garment and they took note of the poorly healing wounds on his neck and shoulder, it took a mountain of convincing to keep the guards from shooting him on the spot.

Neal held up his hands and begged them, "Please, please…don't shoot…I can explain…Just give me a minute to explain…!"

And he told them the story as quickly as he could, hoping they would be willing to believe him.

It was, after all, and despite all doubts, quite true.

The head guard sent for a Doctor, who arrived visibly nervous. She was covered from head to toe in heavy white canvas coveralls accented with small squares of silver electrical tape to repair the tiniest of nicks in her well-worn protective gear. It was her job to verify the age of his wounds.

She approached Neal cautiously, as if moving in on a rabid dog, a hand reaching out to tilt Neal's head to the side to get a better view, and hoping he would not bite. With hands wearing three layers of surgical gloves, she touched the mottled skin, felt the hardness of the scabbing that was developing and stepped back as if she'd seen a ghost.

"When were you bitten?" she asked shakily through her surgical mask.

Neal's head was swimming from fever, from hunger, from exhaustion pain. He had to think about it.

"About a week ago," he said. "Give or take."

"Take him to exam room one," she demanded, and as she raced out, she shouted over a shoulder:

"No one talks to him or touches him without the Director's permission."

And then all hell broke loose.

They dragged him, shirtless and shivering, all skin and bones, contusions and scars into the exam room, a separate hall that was as well equipped as the finest hospitals in New York before the world collapsed under horror of the Ripen virus. The Guards all remained as a legion of doctors entered and without a word to him, without apology or explanation, began their thorough examination.

They were not kind.

Neither were they informative. He asked over and over, "Why are you doing this? What are you looking for? If you could just tell me…"

After hours of having every part of him tested, x-rayed, scraped, and checked, Neal lay fetal position on a cold exam table wondering if dying from the wound that so fascinated his torturers would have been a better fate.

They were mostly astounded by the poorly healed bite marks, staring at Neal and whispering to themselves as if they'd found the Holy Grail.

Or a cure to the Krippen Virus.

They questioned him about it, over and over. He told them the story, over and over. When the doctors had grown weary, or satisfied, they left him.

Neal remained locked in the operating theatre for several hours without explanation. He passed out at some point, but was awaken mere minutes later. More doctors had arrived and set about taking more samples, examining him even more thoroughly than before.

This time, when they were done, two medicos pulled him up and walked him to a shower stall. They stood holding under the steamy spray. Neal was angered and humiliated at their presence in the shower with him until the hot water found his skin and muscles.

At that point, everything else was forgotten.

He closed his eyes and heard a sound that he realized was coming from him…he was sobbing. When was the last time he'd showered? He could not remember, but this felt…astonishing.

Once done, they wrapped him in a blanket and helped him shave. They helped him put on clean pants, shirt and socks. He was lead to the wooden room where the cot sat, inviting him to rest. But before he could reach it, more assistants in white entered, bearing food, water, coffee and smiles. Gone where the masks and heavy environment suits.

"What's happening?" Neal asked. "Why isn't anybody telling me anything? Where are my friends? What's with all the exams? I'm telling you the truth…"

Neal begged for answers but none where given him. He was only assured that everything would be fine if he would only cooperate.

He sat at the small table, the tray of food in front of him. The smell of it overwhelmed him, made him sick to the stomach at first. But he dug in…

And now Neal was siting in this small room, within the Gilead compound, exhausted, fed, but without knowledge of how his friends were doing or what was going to happen to him. Neal was, despite his full belly, quite righteously pissed.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked the doctor's assistant.

"Just tell your story."

"And…why is this necessary…"

The young woman smiled a touch and he instantly remembered her name.

"…Janice?"

"If what you said earlier is true, then you're a miracle, Mr. Caffrey."

"Neal," he said, hating such formalities. Some thing never changed. "And I'm not a miracle. Lucky…maybe."

"We need to keep an accurate account, see what patterns exist in your story," she continued. "If what you say is true…"

"It's true…"

"…then we cannot afford to lose this knowledge. You could help save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. You could probably save the world."

Neal shook his head at her hyperbole. But she was standing by it. She believed it.

"When can I see my friends?"

She smiled again, ever so reassuringly, and reached out and touched his hand. Neal didn't detect any phoniness or attempt at manipulation. But he was still suspicious. Always suspicious.

"As soon as possible," Janice said. "I promise."

"They're okay?"

"As we speak, they're being thoroughly examined by the doctors. Blood tests, delousing, treatment for dehydration and malnutrition. They'll have to stay quarantined for three days. They'll bathe, eat, and rest. And soon they'll be introduced to Gilead. They are safe, and receiving the best of care."

"What about the baby?"

"The baby's fine. You really shouldn't worry, Mr. Caffrey."

Being told he shouldn't worry always made Neal feel that he should indeed worry. He dropped his head, weariness getting the better of him. His wrecked body was demanding sleep, a great deal of sleep.

"All right, let's do this," he said, and tried to pull the stubborn mic closer.

Janice depressed the PLAY and RECORD buttons on the old cassette player, then nodded to Neal to begin.

He rubbed his face, feeling new stubble already peeking through his skin. His right hand, as it had from odd habit lately, reached up and inside his shirt to touch the mottled , poor healed flesh along his shoulder and neck. This is why Gilead had kept Neal locked away. Now he had to find a way to leverage it. He took a deep breath to steady himself.

"My name is Neal George Caffrey," he said. "This is my story."

End Chapter 1

Thank you so much for reading. If you're moved at all, or curious to read more, I hope you'll respond by reviewing. Chapters 2 and 3 are already done, and will be posted over the course of this week. Las chapter I hope will be posted by or before the 31! Happy Halloween, y'all!


	2. We Are Legend II: Balm in Gilead chap 2

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 2

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: All rights remain in the hands of Jeff Eastin and USA. _Au Revoir_ was not enough…how about a White Collar Movie? I'm just sayin'…

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU – Crossover with I Am Legend: Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming fast…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the infected. Can Peter pull the trigger to spare his friend before the painful, violent transformation begins? And, is what awaits our survivors in Vermont safer than what's beyond their protective walls?_

~WC~

ONE WEEK AGO – MID NOVEMBER

They had held out in their fortified townhouse for as long as they could, but supplies were dwindling to nothing and finding more meant venturing out farther into dangerous unknown of darkness and shadows.

The infected Darkseekers were multiplying exponentially. Peter and Neal spoke in hush tones about the eventuality of finding a safer place, hoping not to worry El, but she knew what they were saying. They all knew that it was only a matter of time before Darkseekers laid siege to their home and tore through their barricade. Three against a bloodthirsty horde was the very worst of odds. And with the baby coming in a matter of weeks…

Salvation – or at least, the possibility of salvation – came in the form of a static-laden message that began broadcasting over police band radio.

Neal was the first to hear the broadcast. He was surfing shortwave signals on a jerry-rigged ham radio Peter had set up in the kitchen after the television and radios had stopped broadcasting and cell towers fell idle. Peter had long ago given up hope of hearing from police or government officials, or receiving instructions or directions to safe facilities. Every now and then Neal would check…hope…but things remained quiet after the fall of New York.

Then, after months of lying low Neal heard it…the announcement that began transmitting every hour over open frequencies. Even though it was a recorded voice echoing the same words every time, it was exciting to think – believe! – that someone was out there, people had survived, and they were inviting anyone hearing the broadcast to join them in Vermont. For the first time since the Krippen ordeal had begun, there was finally hope.

"Salvation was in Vermont," came the announcement, with a colony of survivors consisting of doctors, soldiers, scientists and civilians. Families! They promised food, medicine, protection, and community. Safety. This tiny fortified town in Vermont called itself Gilead, and without the Infected running rampant promised an oasis from the madness.

They didn't need to take a vote.

They had to go.

They packed whatever they could carry into sturdy backpacks – food, clothing, water, blankets, and matches. They strapped weapons to them, and with Satchmo at their side, they said goodbye to their townhouse, to the life they once knew, and began their trek at first light.

They found a car, and with extra gas siphoned from other abandoned cars and drained safely into jerrycans, they took to the road.

Their first few days seemed encouraging, almost jovial. Peter enjoyed driving, and Neal, El and even Satchmo relaxed enough to just enjoy the ride. They were making good time. Driving until the sun began to descend, then finding a safe place off the road to sleep. Their first week gave them great confidence, but it was horribly shattered on day eight.

It would only be the first of many tragedies.

Satchmo disappeared the first week on the road. He caught scent and sight of a deer and ran off to chase, as any dog should. They heard his agonized howl in the distance, and knew he had fallen into the hands of the Infected. But they could not make a sound, or dare go after him. To do so would have brought the angry vampire tribe down upon them, and their journey would have come to an abrupt and horrible end.

So Peter held El tightly and they cried, remembering the sweet pup that over a decade and a half ago had peed on their freshly laid hardwood floors as soon as the newlyweds entered their New York apartment.

What a wonderful companion he would have been for the baby…

The car broke down long before they ran out of gas, and they were forced to travel on foot for the better part of three weeks, taking long rest stops between towns, avoiding the main roads for fear of marauders, who, discouragingly, were just as dangerous as the Infected. Worse were the cannibals, who had to be avoided at all costs.

~WC~

Neal shook his shaggy head and kept walking, far ahead of Peter and El for at least a quarter of a mile. Far enough away that he could leave a warning carved in a tree, or, at worst, a trail of his own blood to advise them to turn around or take cover if danger was lurking ahead.

He zipped up his tattered hoodie to ward off the quickening winds. There was a distinct chill in air that told him always of two inevitabilities – winter was faster approaching, but even sooner, was night.

He adjusted the strap of the black Ambush 300 hunting rifle around his shoulder and put a hand on the hilt of the knife he had nicknamed Dundee, which was attached to his belt. Neal never liked violence, but this world, this new world had taught him to be willing to do whatever it took for the sake of survival. He was already a crack shot. He taught himself to be equally impressive with Dundee.

He still didn't like it.

He looked up at the sky and knew by the slow absences of turning leaves and smell of the air that these were the last few days of fall. Night was coming faster and colder each day. Soon the wind would penetrate his once white now dirty and blood stained hoodie like a blade through infected flesh, and he would shiver until his bones rattled.

He wondered how his friends were faring and spared a quickly look over his shoulder, wishing he could see them ambling along.

Poor El. A sad smile crossed his face when he thought of how Peter would teased her gently, calling her his little Subaru, hoping she would not notice, despite the baby, how thin she had become. Women were supposed to gain weight with babies on board, Neal had always known. But El was thinning, just as he was, just as Peter was. And that couldn't be good for the baby.

Every scrap of food he foraged and found he made sure El received first. Next, he insisted Peter take what was left. He and Peter often fought over who should eat what. Most band of survivors, Neal knew by the bodies he found along the road, dispersed or destroyed one another over greed and fear of not having enough. These three fought to make sure the other had plenty to eat. This self-sacrificing was the only thing that helped them keep their humanity through these most inhuman circumstances, Neal often told himself.

As a consequence, Neal was literally fading away. Sometimes he'd come across an abandoned car, and if the window wasn't too dirty he would spy is wraith-like reflection. Were it not for the quick brightness of his blue eyes, he might not have recognized himself at all.

Gone was the well-coifed hair in favor a shaggy mane that no longer respected the control of a comb. And despite the fact that he was still well under the age of 40, gray hairs were slowly attempting to dominate the dark ones. His clothes were nearly falling off of him. And he smelled to high heaven, though he did what he could to combat the odors caused by living a shower-free existence as best as he could. Rain had become his best grooming buddy.

He made it his job not just to scout for danger, but to also find food and clothing for the three of them. Peter had enough on his plate caring for El as her unknown delivery day raced closer. Neal was always good at finding whatever they needed. He could slip in and slip out of anyplace. Only, these days, there was so very little left with which to slip away. He'd spent his "career" stealing priceless art, art that meant absolutely nothing now that the world had changed so drastically. A pair of hiking boots that didn't give him blisters was more wonderful then any Renoir. He'd give a King's ransom for a wool scarf or heavy blanket right now.

These were the new priceless items, the new objet d'art of this strange world, he mused.

Right now, he needed to find himself and his friends some form of shelter for the night, or they would all be exposed by the time the sun went down. Not just exposed to the cold, though.

Dark night was when the infected came out to hunt.

~WC~

"Tell me more about Vermont, hon," El said as she walked awkwardly, supporting her swollen belly, and being supported by the still-strong arms and hands of her husband.

"They make the best maple syrup…"

"I think the Canadians would argue…if there are any Canadians left."

"El…"

"Maybe if Vermont doesn't work out we could head to Canada."

Peter's exhaustion was getting the better of him. He hadn't slept in days. Instead, he kept watch so that Elizabeth could sleep without worry. He knew if he didn't stop and rest soon though, he was going to be of no use to his wife. He needed to be sharp, needed to be alert if he wanted to protect her and the baby.

"Sure, we can do that…head to Canada. But I think this whole Vermont thing is going to work out just fine. You heard the broadcasts. They've got survivors just like us. They've got doctors, lots of doctors, which you're gonna need obviously, and soldiers, guns, and tanks, and real beds and fresh water…"

"And food!" she reminded him. "What I wouldn't give for a hot meal. Steak and a green salad. Mac and cheese. I'd even eat succotash."

"Seriously? You hate succotash."

"I'd fight you for it!"

"You'd lose! I like succotash."

"You like deviled ham, too, so there's no accounting for taste."

"If you're hungry, I've still got half of that Odwallah bar…"

"We're saving that for Neal. Remember?"

"You know he's not going to take it."

"You'll just have to insist, then. Use your gun. He's getting way too thin. I'm worried for him. And for you, too."

Peter smiled, hoping to be reassuring, tightening his grip around to her to support her every step.

"You always said I could afford to lose a pound or two. I call it the Krippen diet."

"That's not funny."

"I know."

They walked in silence for a few beats, noticing the wind picking up, and watching the leaves dance spookily like dervishes in tiny funnels along the road.

"Do you think we'll make it to Vermont," El ventured, "before the baby comes?"

"I do," Peter lied, and prayed silently that his words were true. If El were to go into labor now, in the middle of nowhere, they'd be far too vulnerable. He castigated himself once again for convincing his beloved wife and friend to follow him on this fool's journey. But then, they were as anxious to go as he.

Fear gripped his thoughts every now and again along the way: What if they got to Vermont and nobody was there? Worse, what if they had all died, or the walled compound that promised protection and safety from the Infected was actually filled with infected inhabitants?

Worse, what if El suffered some kind of complication during delivery? Peter had read and studied every obstetrics and midwifing book he could get his hands on, quizzing himself, teaching Neal even as he taught himself, about every possibility surrounding the birth of his child. If he were somehow incapacitated, or worse, absent, by distance or death, he wanted to be certain that El, Neal and the baby would be okay.

"You're worried," Elizabeth said, slowing down to look up at her husband.

Peter stopped, brushing hair back from her face, touching her smudged cheek with his own dirty fingers.

"I am. I won't lie to you."

"I'm not worried. Things will turn out well, or they won't," she said calmly, matter-of-factly, and reached up to touch his thick beard.

Then she wrapped her arms around Peter and looked into his once bright eyes.

"Regardless of what happens, I've had the best life, with the man of my dreams, the man of my heart, and I'm having his baby. Not under the best of circumstances, maybe, but still...

"And for the record, Peter Burke, in case it ever crosses your mind…I have never doubted you. And I never will. Neither of us knows what's going to happen, but I do know this: whatever happens, I'm grateful beyond measure that I get to be with you."

Peter breathed in a ragged breath, nearly overcome by emotion. He pulled his wife closer to him and kissed her, felt her warmth, and felt the roundness of her belly against him. The world was falling apart, but moments like this rescued him from the brink of madness. Moments like these were all that mattered.

"We should pick up the pace," he said finally. "The sun will be setting in a little over an hour, and I'm betting Neal is getting anxious."

They continued their journey, with Peter monitoring her every step and breath.

~WC~

Neal was grateful when he found a small fresh water creek and no sign of dead animals or Infected nearby. He quickly filled the small canteen he kept at his side and made a mental note to boil it later before drinking, just in case. The only reason the three of them stayed alive was by being extra careful.

When Neal spied the roof of a house just over the trees he hoped it would be what they so desperately needed. It turned out to be an old but sturdy place, a traditional American Foursquare. There were maybe a few more windows than he would have preferred, but most of them were already boarded up and he and Peter could secure the rest in an hour or so if they worked fast.

He made his way toward the house, senses alert and attune to his surroundings. There was an abundance of trees, which could be good and bad. Great cover for him, or hiding places for marauders or Infected.

He also searched the treetops for anyone who might be lying in wait above. He prayed aloud that no sniper's bullet would find him tonight. He still had a scar on his lower left back where a bullet tore away a few layers of flesh a couple a weeks ago, but thankfully, the bullet did not penetrate. Still, he was sore for days and it had bled as if the wound were deeper.

And the smell of fresh blood was a sure-fire way to attract Infected.

When he came upon the porch, he stood still and listened, and watched. Was there movement other than in the trees bending in the wind? Were there eyes watching him? All seemed safe on the surface. He would not know until he entered the house, or checked out the land on the other side.

They could confine themselves upstairs, to one room, two if necessary, he thought looking at the upper level. Should it rain, as the cooling humidity in the air made him predict, they could keep warm and dry for the night. If the area was safe, perhaps they could stay an extra day to just rest. Certainly Elizabeth would appreciate the break from the road.

Fresh water source…securable structure…high windows for keeping watch. Neal let himself smile. But now was not the time to celebrate.

He knew he should wait for Peter and El. They'd be along shortly. He could meet them halfway and explain his find. They'd clear the place together, the three of them. That was the plan, always they plan. They'd have each other's back as they crept through the darkness, searching for dangers in the shadows, among the dust motes and rats scurrying for cover. It was routine, clockwork, second nature, the way the three would go into potentially harrowing situations, hearts pumping and adrenaline fueling them.

Neal reached for the old rusted doorknob and stopped himself. He knew he needed to wait for Peter. If something were inside, something crouched and waiting beyond the door, he knew he wouldn't have a chance at surviving it alone.

The sun was getting low. A cold bead of perspiration ran down the middle of his back.

He prayed that Peter would hurry.

~WC~

Peter was good at checking signs along the way, warning signs left by Neal. It could be a subtle as three tiny rocks in the middle of the road, or two sticks stacked like an "x" or bark carved out of the side a of tree. It was important to make use of their natural surroundings, to call as little attention as possible to where they were going.

Peter was busy looking for signs when he heard his wife groan.

"Hon?"

"It's nothing. Just a little pain…"

"What kind of pain?"

She could hear the sudden elevation of anxiety in his voice.

"Not a contraction," she said hopefully. "Just a little muscular something," she said, fighting not to let Peter know she was starting to feel concern.

"You sure?" We can stop…"

"We can't stop. It's almost sundown."

Peter looked up and saw that there was very little light in the trees, and the road was starting to take on a dusky tone.

"We need to find…"

At that moment Peter saw Neal, tiny in the distance, heading their way. Relief washed over him and he found the strength to quicken his pace and encouraged Elizabeth to do the same.

Neal ran and caught up with them, walking alongside, never taking a moment to catch is breath.

"Found a house…two stories…attic...stream….water looks good…no sign of Infected."

"How far?" Peter asked.

"Just ahead. El?"

"I'm okay."

Both men were staring at her.

"Okay," she confessed, "I feel a little something."

"Let's move," Peter demanded, then, "Sorry, El."

Instantly Neal and Peter scooped up Elizabeth sedan-style and moved down the road as fast as they could.

"Guys, this isn't necessary…"

"Just sit tight, and enjoy the ride," Peter encouraged her as they raced to shelter.

GILEAD

"Why are you smiling?"

Neal was bothered by the way Janice was staring at her hands and smiling as he told his story. This wasn't a particularly humorous story.

"Forgive me," Janice said and cleared her throat as she cleared the memory. "I was just remembering something that happened when I was a kid."

"What?" Neal genuinely wanted to know, anything to distract him for a moment, and rid himself of the knot forming in his gut.

"I was seven," she said, "and playing in a tree with my sibs and a few kids from the neighborhood in a little park not far from home. I fell, really hard, and hurt my leg. Broke it, actually. I remember crying so hard I thought I was going to throw up.

"My big brother was there, but he was kind of a skinny kid. He tried to pick me up to take me home, but he didn't quite have the strength, not yet. So a friend of his, about the same size, they carried me home the same way you and Peter carried Elizabeth. Sedan-style. Your story reminded me, made me smile."

"I'm glad. There's not a lot to smile about these days. What happened to your brother?"

"He was military. He died on the Brooklyn Bridge that first night, trying to stop people from stampeding before they closed the city."

"I'm sorry. And the friend?"

"I married him. He died two days before we made it to Gilead."

Neal felt as if his throat was swelling. He sat back and thought about all the people he had also lost along the way. June. Mozzie. Jones. Diana… What was happening in London? Was Sara safe? What if she'd become one of the…

"Are you okay to continue, Mr. Caffrey?"

"Yes!" he said quickly, pushing back all the feelings of loss and anguish.

"Could we back-track for a moment, for clarification?"

Neal nodded as he wrung his hands, feeling the thinness and boniness that wasn't there when this ordeal began.

"You mentioned marauders. They were survivors, like you. Do you know if any of them were immune, or just lucky?"

"I never asked."

"Did you ever come into contact with marauders?"

Neal closed his eyes, ground his teeth.

"Were you attacked by marauders?" Janice asked.

"Were you?" Neal countered.

Janice bristled at the hostility in Neal's voice, and hesitated before answering.

"Yes. And you?"

"Yes," Neal said, and sat back in his seat. This was a hard memory for him.

He went for his coffee, noticed it had gone cold – had they been talking that long? He took a sip, and prayed she could not see that his hand was shaking as he lifted the mug to his lips.

"Is this necessary?" he asked finally. "I don't think it's relevant…"

She merely nodded, hating that it was relevant, as much as she hated it.

"They are despicable individuals…I know…but if they're out there surviving, and they're immune, we need to find a way to reach out to them."

"You reach out to them, you'll have a bloody stump where you hand was."

"They may also be the answer to Krippen, Neal. Please…"

He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want anyone to know.

"I'll make a deal with you," Janice said. "You tell me, I'll go find out how your friends are doing."

"How about you let me see Peter, talk to him?"

"That's not the deal."

"I'm altering the deal."

Janice crossed her arms. She would not be moved.

"You'll tell me the truth, tell me if they're okay, or if…if they're not?" Neal pushed.

Janice nodded.

He sat back and felt a chill go through him despite the heat radiating from the wood-burning stove.

"Three days out…we were taking a main road, hoping to make better time. Night was coming fast, as it usually did. We were out in the open.

"Six of them. Five men, one woman. Dirty, starving, raggedy. Savage. Came up on us begging for food and water, and then they jumped us. One of them held a knife…"

Neal mimed holding a large knife…held his head back a bit and placed the make believe knife to his throat.

"He held it to Elizabeth's throat…like this…"

Neal dropped his hands had upon the tabletop. His shoulders stooped, his face in turmoil, as he continued.

"They didn't care that she was pregnant. Peter and I tried to fight him. They were going to…"

"Going to what?"

Neal fought to steady his voice. If he had to say it, he wanted to be understood. He never wanted to have to say it again.

"They were going to rape her. Then, kill her…cook her…and eat her. They were going to tie up Peter and me, and save us for later."

Janice sat back, but did not take her eyes off of Neal. She crossed her arms, as if fighting against the urge to shudder.

"One of them knocked Peter unconscious. El was terrified, screaming for Peter. I was afraid she'd go into labor right there. There was nothing I could do…until I remembered…I had a deck of cards in my back pocket."

"A deck of cards? Like, playing cards?"

"Gotta have a deck of cards for the end of the world, right? I got their attention with a game of Find the Lady…Three Card Monte. They couldn't find the queen to save their lives. I kept them occupied so that El could slip away. Sometime during the game, Peter came to, and off they went."

"They left you?"

"I wanted them to. I knew they'd be waiting for me somewhere close by. All I had to do was find a way to distract the marauders and run. A couple of the freaks got into a fight over the game, and I had my chance. I took off. But they weren't far behind. I guess I really pissed them off..."

Neal stopped and stared at the table top, not wanting to remember. His body jerked, once, hard, as if he'd been shocked, if the sharp memory had stabbed him in the gut.

"I woke up a couple hours later…a knot on my head the size of a peach…El and Peter found me, but not before…"

Neal stopped again. His eyes took on a murderous look, even while filling with tears. His jaw became tight, body tense.

"Peter said, it was probably a good thing I passed out from the head injury. The memory of what they did to me is fleeting at best, like a remnant of a senseless nightmare. Undefined but still there…"

Neal balled up his fist and banged it hard on the table. Janice jump with the fury of the gesture.

More quietly, he said, "Better me than El."

He kept his eyes averted for several moments.

Janice reached out a pressed "stop" on the recorder.

"Let's take a break," she said, then left Neal alone to deal with his damaged soul in the silence of room.

END CHAPTER TWO

Thanks for reading. If any part of this story moved you at all, please tell me in a review. Candy corn smiles for everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 3

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the infected. Can Peter pull the trigger to spare his friend before the painful, violent transformation begins?_

~WC~

When Janice returned to the little room a hour or so later, she found Neal lying sleeping on the floor by the small cot in the corner, holding himself for comfort and warmth, as if he'd forgotten how or why to use a bed or blankets.

"Neal?"

"I'm awake," he said sleepily and instantly sat up, wiping the corner of his mouth. His eyes had grown red and a bit swollen from bitter tears and too little sleep.

Janice knelt down and reached out to touch Neal's forehead, gingerly pushing sweat-dampened hair from his face. Her heart broke when he flinched at first, but he caught himself, and allowed her the tender gesture.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you," she said. "My intention was not to be cruel, just…comprehensive. They would like us to continue. I told them it wasn't a good idea, you needed to rest, but…"

"I understand," Neal said as he stood on rubber legs and made his way back to the table.

"Tell me, off the record, what do you think they're going to do to me?"

He saw fear in Janice's eyes, not in her contact with him, but in her avoidance as she sat down across from him and fiddled with the cassette recorder.

He decided it was time to push a little harder, get answers.

"I mean…the only explanation for why I'm still alive is that I'm immune. And that whatever it is that saved me…it's in me…in my blood. What do you think your Gilead scientists and doctors are going to do to me?"

"That's a little above my pay grade. And I wouldn't be wise to speculate."

"Why haven't I met any doctors but you so far? When do I get to meet the Grand Poobah, the head of all this? "

"You'll meet them," she said reassuringly. "They're all in the lab, busy with…"

"They're going to kill me, aren't they?"

"Neal…?"

"I'm the cure, right? I mean, that's what this whole dog and pony show is about. This isn't going to be easy on me. As soon as they reach their conclusions, they're gonna lay me open, aren't they?

"We don't know anything yet. We won't know until we…"

"Cut out my organs? Drain every ounce of blood from my body?"

"This isn't the dark ages!"

"Actually, it is. You just haven't figured it out. Welcome to the new dark ages."

Janice reached out to touch Neal's hand, but this time, Neal pulled away, placing his hands atop his head.

"It has to be easier than in here than out there, right?" Janice ventured.

Neal rubbed his hair until the black and grey locks were standing like black and soft gray spikes.

"If you say so," he said, with a little more anger than he mean to. He knew his fate wasn't Janice's fault, nor was it in her hands. He would do better to win her over as a friend. If it came down to it, if he had to run, he would need someone on his side.

So he reached out and took her hand, and saw her reaction. She was vulnerable to his attention, her deep dark eyes locked on his bright ones.

"It's just, when they come after you out there," he said, "you know it. You get it. Marauders and Infected are pretty straightforward about eating you or killing you. Here, everybody is all smiles and polite, but nobody's saying anything. At least out there, you know what you're up against, and you know how to fight. Or when to run."

"We're the good guys," she said, and laid a hand atop his.

"I hope so," Neal said, and saw a possible spark of complicity in her eyes. He may have just made himself an ally.

"I understand a little of what you went through," she said with a trained clinical kind of empathy. "I won't pretend to understand how you feel. I'm not supposed to share personal information…"

"You already did, about your brother and your husband…"

"True," she said. "I was also…attacked…but I didn't have the luxury of being unconscious."

"I wouldn't call it a luxury."

"I would."

She opened her white lab coat and pulled up her white tee shirt, revealing long, jagged, poorly healed wound on her side.

"After…after they…"

Her voice was soft, small…as if saying aloud might bring back her torturers.

"They stabbed me and left me for dead. I watched my husband bleed to death in my arms. Were it not for one of the doctors who found me while on the way here…"

"So we are both survivors," said Neal. He saw the bond of friendship forming, based on mutual suffering. She continued.

"If you managed to live through the virus, the fall of New York City, the deaths of all your friends, and family, and everything else you went through to get here, you can survive this, Neal. I promise."

Neal sat back and nodded. He'd pushed enough. He'd made the connection. This wasn't a con, he realized. His heart was most certainly moved by this brave young woman.

"Then let's get on with it, Janice. Where was I?"

"You had just arrive the old house with Peter and Elizabeth."

Neal shuddered, nodded, swallowed hard. "Oh…yeah…"

~WC~

"Don't make me stay here alone, Peter!" El cried, her hands shaking as she took the loaded gun from her husband. "I can still help you clear the house. I'm fine."

"No! No…you stay right here. We'll let you know when the coast is clear. If you see anything, hear anything, you shoot, and you run!"

"Hon…"

Peter wanted to shout at her, demand that she listen and do as he asked, but when he saw the odd look on his wife's face, and heard the sound of water falling upon the dry leaves under foot, it was quite apparent that her focus was about to change.

"Hon…my water just broke…"

"Okay…Okay…we're gonna get you inside. Hang on El, just hang on."

He helped her sit against an old wide tree for cover and pressed the gun firmly in her hand.

"Anything, or anybody comes close, you shoot first!"

"What if it's you or Neal?"

"Try to miss."

Peter stepped up on the porch with Neal and pulled another gun from behind his back, checked the mag, then let his hard-to-forget F.B.I. training take over.

"El okay?" Neal asked, prepping his deer rifle.

"Her water broke," he said, trying to sound matter-of-factly, but Neal knew, Peter was terrified.

"We better get moving. On three," Neal said, and in three, Peter kicked in the door.

Neal ran in first, using what little dusk there was outside to see what was inside. A few old piece of furniture were covered in sheets. Dust was thick in the air and clinging on every surface. The smell of mildew made him fight to hold back a gag. But surprisingly, no squatters had claimed the place. No dead animals, no filth, and more importantly, no marauders or Infected…so far.

Could their luck really be that good?

"Clear," said Neal, meaning that all he could see appeared to be safe. It was his turn now to cover Peter as he entered and took in more of the area.

"Clear."

Time to head up stairs.

In ten minutes, the house had been thoroughly checked, and Neal and Peter declared it safe, at least for the night.

And then they heard El, crying out in the descending darkness.

Both men raced outside quickly, guns ready, but found El safe but fighting to breathe through a contraction.

"I'm sorry," she said, panting excitedly. "I tried not to make a sound but I couldn't hold it back…the baby's coming fast. Really fast…"

Peter dropped to a knee quickly to reassure his tearful wife, taking her face in her hands.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay. The baby's gonna be fine. Wait till you see this place. It's the Ritz. It's dusty, but no bodies to clear out. There's a little attic room with a brass bed and a mattress, and a lookout window. It's going to be fine. Junior's going to be brought into the world in style. Right, Neal?"

Neal was busy keeping watch for them, eyes strafing the dark woods for any sign of movement.

"Right. Get El inside. I'll check the grounds."

"No, we check the grounds together. We don't change routine."

Elizabeth stifled the urge to cry out again, biting into her own fist.

"I'll take care of it," Neal insisted, nearly begged.

Peter didn't need any further incentive. He shoved his gun behind his back and scooped El up from the ground. Practically running, he made his way into the house, and out of Neal's sight.

~WC~

He began walking the perimeter, close to the house at first, then spiraling outward, searching for signs that they might not be alone. He took his time, wondering how things were going with El and the baby. These were not the best of circumstances, he knew, but Neal could not help but smile. This was miraculous, even though the timing could've been better. He prayed silently that whatever happened, the baby would be born immune. And El would make it through the next few hours without any complications.

He started planning…back in the house, he would grab up some of those sheets covering furniture, give them a good shake and take them up to the Burkes. They could use them for warmth, and for swaddling for the baby.

Hot water, he thought. Aren't you supposed to boil water or something when someone's having a baby? Isn't that what they always asked for in old movies?

And then he heard it. The sound of fast breathing and a guttural growl. Neal looked up wide-eyed, terrified, and saw it, moving toward the porch, heading for the door.

An Infected. 

He lifted his deer rifle. He could hit it from here. He could hit it from anywhere. But if it wasn't alone, if it there were more Infected hiding in the woods, they would be drawn by the sound of gunfire.

Neal stealthily placed the rifle on the ground and pulled Dundee from his belt. Close quarters combat will have to do.

~WC~

Peter did everything he could to help his wife be as comfortable as possible. He held her hand, reassured her. He did Lamaze breathing with her. She was a champ, brave and determined to get through labor. Peter loved her more than ever for fighting so hard for them, and especially for their baby.

He wiped her sweaty face with the end of an old shirt and kissed her forehead.

"You're doing great!" he said to encourage her, taking deep breath with her.

"Something's wrong…"

"With the baby?"

"No…Neal. He should've been back by now. You should go check…"

"Neal's fine. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving your side."

And then they heard it, noises from below: A scuffle, the cry of their friend, followed by a howl that chilled them both.

"Go!" she screamed, and Peter took off.

Peter took the stairs three at a time, feeling the strain on his legs and back but putting the thought of pain behind him. Once downstairs, he yanked the door open and saw a sight he had hoped never to see.

Neal straddling an Infected, raising his hunting knife high. He stabbed it into the once-human creature's head once, then again, and again. Blackish blood like thick liquid licorice sprayed everywhere, upon his face and clothes, covering his hands. The thing under him mewled until it grew still and thankfully died.

Neal leaped off of the infected and crab-crawled backwards until there was distance decent between them. Every part of Neal was trembling from fear, from adrenaline…and from pain.

Peter raced to Neal side, then surveyed the area anxiously.

"Are there more?"

Neal shook his head. "I don't think so," he said, gasping for air.

"A stray?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Neal said. He fought to get his trembling voice under control.

"I think so. They'd be here by now…if there were more. He was weak. Probably starving. That's the only way…I got a jump…on him…"

"Nice job," Peter said, reaching out a hand to help his friend up. "Let's get you in the house."

Neal backed away.

"No…"

Instead of standing, Neal covered his face and began to cry. He tried to stifle it, to stop it, but he could not.

It was startling to Peter. He'd never heard the younger man cry like this, never like this before. This came from a deep place. Dark and hopeless. A chill ran down Peter's back and made his stomach turn.

"Neal…?"

"Get back to El," he said, wiping his face. "I'll bury the Infected, so there's no scent trail for others to follow."

"Okay," said Peter, waiting for more. Waiting for the rest…

"And…I'll need your gun."

Foreboding clenched Peter's through, and words nearly choked him.

"Why do you want my gun, Neal? Did you loose your rifle?"

Neal stood now, took a deep breath, and retrieved his deer rifle from the ground.

"Trade you," he said.

"Neal…?"

Neal pulled his shirt away from his neck, revealing the deep, blood-gushing wound to his shoulder.

Where the Infected had bitten him. He closed his eyes against the searing heat of wound.

Peter felt his knees weakening. He doubled over, sickness from his knowledge wracking his body.

"No…nonono…Neal…!"

"It's okay, Peter…"

"No! It's not okay…it's NOT…OKAY…!"

Peter turned away, cursed loudly. He couldn't let Neal see the depth of agony on his face. He'd feared this moment, since they decided they would work together to stay alive.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way," Peter said, voice hitching. He could barely breathe.

"I know you promised...if I ever got bitten, or exposed…" Neal began.

"Yeah, yeah," said Peter abruptly, eyes tightly closed. "I promised…I promised I'd take care of you…and you'd do the same for me."

"One bullet…in the brain. Peter…"

"Neal…! Just…stop a minute! Just stop! I need to think. I need to think!"

"There's nothing to think about! Look…you need to take care of Elizabeth and the baby. And I don't want to put you through this. I'll do it myself. Just…give me your gun."

"This isn't happening…this isn't happening…"

"I wish it wasn't, Peter."

Silence stood between them like a brick wall. Peter finally turned to look his friend in the eye.

Neal was stooped and shaking from the pain of the wound, watching his own blood run and drip to the ground. He'd thought of grabbing something to put pressure o the wounds, to stop the bleeding. But why bother? He was dead.

Neal he straightened himself and put on the bravest face he could muster.

"Tell your kid about me. Tell him, or her, that I'm sorry I couldn't stick around to meet 'em."

"We've only gotten this far because of you, Neal. You kept us going. When I lacked the faith or the courage or the conviction…"

"Don't sell yourself short, Peter. You're the bravest man I ever knew."

Then, more quietly, Neal said, "You're my best friend."

This time it was Peter who covered his face, dropped his head and let the tears flow.

The raw pain in Neal's shoulder and neck let him know that the adrenaline from the fight was wearing off. Soon, he knew, the pain would be excruciating. The virus that had been introduced into this bloodstream would set off a violent course of action that was guaranteed to make Neal's last hours a nightmare.

He would soon be wracked with fever and delirium, then in and out of consciousness while the Krippen virus was overtaking his body. After screaming and more screaming, and maddening pain…a matter of a few short hours – six if he was lucky, fewer if he wasn't – he'd become one of the Infected, and a danger to his friends. He wouldn't even recognize or care about Peter or Elizabeth anymore. They'd be nothing more than prey.

Unless he had the courage to put a bullet through is brain to spare him and his friends the horror.

"Your gun…?" Neal held out a trembling hand for it. He was putting on a very brave front, but Peter knew better. Neal was terrified.

And there was nothing he could do to help him, or make him feel better.

His friend was as good as dead. Neal Caffrey was dying. And then he'd become a monster.

"This isn't it," Peter said desperately. "This can't be it. There has to be something…"

"You can't fix this, Peter. I wish you could."

Both men looked up when they heard Elizabeth cry out in labor.

Peter turned back toward the house, started making his way back, but turned when a though occurred to him.

"Wait a few hours," Peter said, pleadingly, demandingly. "Just a couple hours. I know, it won't be easy. Maybe you can see the baby. Maybe the last thing you see won't be that thing you're about to bury. Promise me you'll wait. And when you're not you anymore, when you're not Neal, I'll take care of you. Just like I promised. One bullet…

"…in the head," Neal finished.

Peter nodded.

"You're my best friend," Peter said. He'd never said it before. Neal always knew it. But it was nice to hear it. He nodded, and stared at the instrument of his death lying on the ground still bleeding out black blood.

Peter stopped, turned back and drew his friend to him, pulling the thinning man in to a bear hug. This may be his last chance, he realized…

In a few hours Neal will loose his hair, his eyes and teeth will change, and he'll be mad for the smell of human blood.

God…how was he going to tell Elizabeth?

~WC~

When Peter returned to the attic, he was trembling. It was as if something from deep inside was determined to shake loose of him, a thing intent on damaging him in the process and leaving behind a sharp, bitter memory that time could never soften or erase.

This was in purity grief, a deeper grief than had ever felt, or allowed himself to feel in a very long time. It was also anger, unfocused but seeking a soft target to attempt to eradicate the burning within him.

The only thing that could shake Peter harder was the loss of El...or the baby. But he knew he must not dwell upon such things. Maybe, superstitiously, unconsciously he called Neal's dark predicament into being by merely thinking of it. He'd allowed it into physical creation by giving his imagination free reign to consider all the darkest scenarios, like Neal being bitten, Neal being infected. And these were the damnable consequences of his unbridled thoughts: having to place cold steel to the forehead of his closet friend and pull the trigger; having to make sure his friend's brain was completely destroyed, lest he have to remove the head completely from the body.

Peter broke down at the thought, covered his face, pressing his thumb and finger into his eyes as if the pressure could eradicate his tears. The world changed again for him, the moment he saw the bloody gouge where Infected teeth had ripped into his friend. He was, for the moment, Neal Caffrey, but that would not last very long. Neal was dead, now and later. And there would be no coming back from this.

El saw it on his face when he stepped into the room, slouched, red-eyed, pale.

She knew.

She knew, but said nothing and covered her own face and cried. Her arms reached out desperately wanting to be filled, and Peter slipped between her arms and held her for dear life. Her new tears left tiny warm stains upon his shoulder. He would be feeling this, remembering this, for a very long time.

"I can't believe he's gone," she fought to say.

"Almost."

Her tears were reined in while her brain, fogged by grief and childbirth, collided with the illogic of that one word.

"What do you mean, almost? What happened?"

"A loner, a straggler...Neal tried to take him out. It bit him..."

He touched his own shoulder, indicating...

"...here. Deep wound..."

"He's still alive?"

Peter nodded once. He imagined the sound of gunfire, a sign that it would be all over. What would that sound do to El? What would it do to him?

"I need you to concentrate on the baby," he said, voice shaking. He loathed himself for this weakness. Now was the time to be strong.

"Where is Neal?"

"Burying the Infected."

"Then he's still Neal. He's still Neal!"

"Not for long. In about six hours, give or take..."

"To hell with what happens in six hours! I know what happens in six hours! But if he's still Neal, we need to treat him like he's still our friend! He doesn't stop being our friend!"

"Hon, please...the baby!"

She pushed back, away from him.

"I want to see him. I want you to bring him here. You bring him here! We have to say goodbye."

Peter shook his head. What she was requesting, demanding, seemed right. But was it wise? Wouldn't it be better to have a happier memory of Neal, than to see him bleeding, weakening, dying before their eyes?

"You didn't keep your promise, did you...?"

"No...Neal…he wants to do it himself."

"Peter! You can't let him! You can't let him!"

And then she screamed through grinding teeth as a new contraction made her baby her sole focus.

Her cries seemed interminable to Peter, but at the end of it, with her face in a scowl not unlike something Peter randomly remembered seeing in a horror movie about an exorcism, she turned her focus back to her husband and said, adamantly:

"He's still Neal. We need to say goodbye…"

Peter knew she was right. But how was he to split his focus? Between contractions, bandage his friend and monitor his body temperature? While bringing his son or daughter into the world, mind Neal for rapid breathing and changing eyes? Swaddle his newborn while checking Neal's teeth for grown and hairline for sudden loss? He had to choose his battle. No matter what, he felt as if he was racing towards disaster.

How could he tell her the die had already been cast?

Neal was bitten. As sure as the sun was going to rise tomorrow, he was going to turn. Why not let him decided for himself when and how the end should be?

"Because," she said, tear streaming down her face, leaving clean pink lines as the wetness sluiced through the grime, "because he's Neal...the one who convinced you to pull him out of jail seven years ago, convinced you to trust him. The one who bore the indignity of that stupid anklet for an eternity and rarely left your side. And when he did, you went looking for him!

"When Krippen destroyed everything, he could easily have run off and taken care of number one, but he came back for you. For us. I just want to say goodbye to him. I know it's dangerous, Peter, but we've been in danger since this whole thing began. What's so different now?"

"How do you do this?" Peter asked, his heart feeling a sense of calm.

~WC~

Peter hand to help Neal up the stairs. One at time, slowly. On a scale of one through ten, he had to imagine his friend was suffering at about a nine and one half. And it would only get worse. His body was soaked with perspiration, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was shivering, despite the fact that he had a fever of what had to be at least 102 and climbing.

"You still with me?" he asked.

"Still here," said Neal, breathing hard from exhaustion, the wound burning like some new kind of fire.

"Pancakes," Neal said.

"What?"

"I wish I had pancakes."

"You hungry?"

"No…I'd probably throw them up. I was just thinking I won't get to have them again. When you get to Vermont, I want you to have a stack of pancakes and remember me."

"I won't need pancakes to remember you, Neal. Hold, we're almost there."

He led Neal to the old brass bed where El lay covered and waiting to see him.

Neal sat weakly upon the mattress next to her, and El reached out, hands upon his face. He smiled, or tried.

Their foreheads touched.

Words were not necessary.

They stayed that way for nearly a minute. Peter watched, and only felt the slightest twinge of jealously.

When she let him go, it wasn't because she wanted to.

She knew it was time to push.

Peter grabbed Neal and dragged him from the room to the hall, helped him sit. He produced handcuffs from his back pocket and attached one end to Neal's thin wrist, then to the banister.

"Do I have to tell you not to pick this?"

"I don't think I have strength."

"I'm going back with El."

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere."

El screamed and Peter was gone a spit second later.

It was about then that Neal's fever dreams began.

END CHAPTER 3

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! HAVE FUN, BE SAFE, AND EAT LOTS OF WONDERFUL CHOCOLATE. And please, do kindly review if this is moving your hearts or minds or imaginations at all! I thought this story would be 2 or 3 chapters, but clearly there's more to go. So, I'll post chapter 4 by Sunday, or Monday at the latest. I figure this will go about six chapters before it's all said and done. Thanks for your kind attention!


	4. Chapter 4

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 4

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the infected…_

~WC~

"Push, Hon! PUSH!"

And she did, with all of her might, with all her strength, with every ounce of courage and heart and fortitude, she pushed. Grinding her teeth, exhausting each breath.

"Keep pushing!"

Despite the anxiety, elation and agony of the moment, El could not keep back the thought that this was much more than merely giving birth...

"That's it! You're doing great, Hon…!"

...but was a bold and radical act of pure defiance. Her husband may not have known it or even considered it, so caught up in the moment was he. Someday they would both realize that this was Peter and Elizabeth Burke proving that the human spirit could not, would not, be easily crushed. Even by the dark disaster the world had become at the hands of the Krippen virus…

This was the persistence of life. No...the _insistence_ of life.

"Oh my God, El," Peter cried tearfully, "…Oh...my…God!"

And when she heard her husband shout for joy and laugh out loud, she opened her swollen, teary eyes and saw her tiny, wonderful miracle writhing stiffly in Peter's hands. She burst out in laughter and more tears as Peter ever so gently placed the tiny baby Burke upon her.

"We have a son," Peter said, voice lost in emotion.

"Breathe…" she cooed. "Breathe…"

And when he did, when finally he cried, she repeated her husbands' words in a voice weak but determined to be strong. It was a declaration of victory.

"We have a son."

~WC~

Neal felt as if he was drowning, and he knew there would be no rescue. Never had he felt so completely alone.

Each attempt to draw breath sent paroxysms of white-hot pain pulsating through him like some living creature attempting to overtake him and rip away his soul.

He could not tell if he was awake or dreaming, or whether his suffering had gone on for minutes, hours or even days. There was only excruciating pain and noise; blinding fever and bone-rattling chills that shook him like a chew toy in the mouth of a monstrous dog. And there was a strident noise like the scream of a thousand Infected in his ears, in his head, as if they were calling for him, coming for him, laying claim to him...

Neal was losing the battle to live, and to die human.

He turned to the side as quickly as he could to vomit blood on the floor. The wound – the bite of the Infected was pulsating like a ringing bell, and smelled acridly of death. He knew his time was nearly over. Soon, very soon, Neal would slip deep into the Krippen-induced coma. And as natural death reached for him, its hands would slip away from his throat unsatisfied...

And the transformation would begin. He would become the Infected.

And his friends would be in grave danger.

Neal reached up and ran a weak and trembling hand through is sweat-soaked hair, then looked at his rigid fingers. He expected to see his it filled with hair - clumps of black and gray and bloody chunks of scalp and flesh as the new flesh began to take root within him.

But other than sweat and grim, his hand came away oddly clean.

Even in his fevered state, Neal knew this could not be. He had seen this happen to so many before. He even held Mozzie while it happened to him. Though he had little hair to lose, he'd changed nonetheless, scalp sluicing away like wet tissue to reveal his newer, tougher Krippin skin.

Next Neal ran his tongue over his teeth, expecting to feel sharp flesh-rending incisors pushing through his gums, replacing his old human teeth as they fell out one by one.

Not yet.

I didn't matter, he told himself. It would all happen eventually.

He could hear his friends - no, his family: Peter begging for El to push, and El muffling her screams as she fought through labor. He wanted so badly to see the baby. Wanted to live to be Uncle Neal and help teach the kid how to survive and thrive by his or her wits and charm and well-honed strengths in this overwhelmingly frightful world. What good was Neal to anybody now?

Neal was very weak, but not so weak that he could not break free from his momentary captivity. Out of habit, Neal "forced" Peter to clamp the cuffs above his wrist so that he could simply slip out of it. He didn't mean to, but at least he knew when it happened that he was still very much Neal Caffrey. He heard the clang of the handcuffs hitting the floor. The sound made his head ached, made his eyes ache.

At least, he said, he would die free. No cuffs, no jail cells. No tracking anklets. Just...

Free.

He tried to stand up but succeeded only in falling hard on the floor, right on his face. Strength had long left his thin body. Getting down the stairs was going to be one heck of a trick, he mused. But he had no other choice.

As he inched his way to the top of the stairs, he heard the strained cry of the newly born child. He smiled, as best he could.

That was the last thing Neal remembered as he involuntarily tumbled down the stairs to the bottom.

~WC~

"Ten fingers...ten toes. Black hair..."

"Like his mother," said Peter.

"Strong jaw, like his father," said El.

Peter sat close to his wife, watching enrapt as El held Junior. That would be his name until they decided on a proper name, a more fitting name.

He could not stop smiling.

"You're so beautiful," Peter said.

"Flatterer," she retorted with a wan smile. "You look as exhausted as I feel."

"You need rest. Lots of it. I'll clean up here, and…"

"You need to rest, too, Peter. You're running on empty."

"I'll be fine, Peter reassured her. "As soon as I take care of this, I'll..."

Neal came to mind. He still had to deal with Neal.

His smile faded, claimed by the one soul-crushing task he had yet to perform.

He knew the same thought crossed El's mind when he saw how her face gave way to sadness.

"You should show Neal the baby," said Elizabeth. "Before...you know..."

Instantly a thin touch light was shed upon the moment. Yes, there was still the matter of seeing to a quick and merciful death for his best friend. But first, he could give him a bit of joy, a bit of life. Neal had spent the last seven months of his life doing whatever he could to encourage El through the pregnancy, protecting her, looking out for her. Risking his own life to find her essentials like canned milk, baby vitamins, and blankets. Referring to himself as Uncle Neal...or, more accurately, the smarter surrogate dad.

It was time Uncle Neal met his nephew.

Peter nodded. His head hurt.

His heart hurt, too, as his would be goodbye.

He gingerly took the baby from El to wrapped Junior in one of the small warm blankets Neal has stuffed into Peter's backpack ages ago.

"Tuck it tight," El instructed, "like a little baby burrito."

Burrito, he understood (and fleetingly wished he had one), and found success. He held up little wrapped up Junior for her nod of approval.

"I was thinking..." she said, hesitating. _How would her loving husband take to her request?_

"Somewhere between all the pushing and the craziness..."

"What?" he asked.

"About a name for the baby."

"I had an idea of my own," he said, not wanting to push her in a direction she may not wish to go.

"Tell me," she said.

"No, you spoke first. You tell me what you're thinking."

"Well," she ventured, "I was hoping we could name him after you...and Neal..."

Tears sprang to his eyes while he stared down at his remarkable progeny.

"You stole the idea right out of head," he said with a broken smile.

"Do you have a preference," she asked, "for which name comes first?"

"I kinda do," Peter said. "If it's okay with you, I'd also like to remember Jones. Neal...Clinton...Peter...Burke."

"Neal Clinton Peter Burke…" she repeated.

Both let tears fall, for Neal, for old friends long gone but always remembered.

"That's so perfect," El said. "Jones would have been happy, too."

Silence ruled the moment, until Peter realized time was of the essence.

"I'll be right back," he said, and made his way out, carrying precious cargo.

When Peter saw the blood and the empty handcuffs on the floor by the bannister, the joys of fatherhood were quickly replaced by panic and indecision. His gut was instantly filled with knots and his head throbbed with fear.

Neal had more than likely turned, and gotten away. Or he was very nearly turned.

And was somewhere in the house.

~WC~

With Neal's deer rifle in one hand and a machete back up in the other, Peter followed the blood trail down the stairs. He stopped, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness, but he still had to struggle to see.

If indeed Neal had changed, the darkness would pose no limit to him. Indeed, the darkness was when they could see and hunt and kill, avoiding the light at all costs, like all things evil and dedicated to the destruction of man.

He could hear is own heart beating, thumping madly in his chest as he turned shadowed corners, each time expecting to be attacked. Adrenaline flowed through his bloodstream, heightening his senses, calling upon his training and skill.

He'd caught Neal before. He knew he would certainly catch him again.

In minutes that felt like scattered eternities, Peter had checked the entire house and the front porch. No sign of Neal. There was only a blood trail, intermittent, which indicated to Peter that Neal had both crawled and walked, through the hall, out the door, down the porch steps and away.

He must've know, Peter mused. He must've known he was changing and got out before it could happen.

But once he was changed, all thoughts of saving Peter and El and the baby would be gone, forgotten, and of no consequence.

He would only live to kill.

Peter gave a quick 360 degree look around...he saw nothing, heard nothing but crickets, felt nothing but the night air chilling his skin.

They were safe.

For the moment.

Peter raced back in side, shut and locked the door, and moved what few pieces of furniture he could find in the abandoned house and pushed it all against the door. He knew it would not stop the beast that his friend had become from entering, but it might slow him down. And it may also create enough noise to wake them or warn them.

And then Peter would gladly deliver on his promise.

 _One bullet, in the head…to destroy the brain..._

~WC~

...The way was dark and he could not see...

 _El?_

...Infected were screaming...

...he was surrounded on all sides...

 _El!_

...she was running beside him, holding his hand…but suddenly she was gone...

 _EL!_

...the baby...where's the baby!

...Neal was holding the baby...but he wasn't Neal anymore...

...My gun!...

...something grabbed him by the shoulder and -

 _"NO!"_

He must've fallen asleep.

Peter cursed himself for sleeping. He was supposed to be standing watch over his wife and son, but somehow, exhaustion had overtaken him, and his body betrayed him. What was he thinking?

Peter practically leaped from the small brass bed where El and the baby were sleeping soundly. She stirred but merely repositioned herself on the old mattress and kept sleeping.

Peter was shocked and delighted to see daylight making its way through the small window. They had made it through the night. A quantifiable miracle, and a major relief. He knew he could move around freely outside without fear of Infected now. He also knew he would not see Neal, so his dark duty would thankfully be postponed, at least until sunset. He was certain Neal would return by then.

They needed water desperately, and he needed desperately to relieve himself, so Peter grabbed his and El's canteen from his backpack, headed down the stairs, removed the barricades and made his way outside.

The sun was out and promised to be strong, so it must've been later than eight a.m., Peter surmised. There was a touch of warmth in the air, like Indian summer. This would have been a perfect day for traveling, but he knew that wasn't possible. El needed time recuperate from her ordeal. And Peter's own exhaustion could make him careless.

He took a moment to thank God for the much needed respite. After so many struggles, so many heartaches and so much fear, it was great to just breathe and feel gratitude again.

His baby boy was perfect. Little Neal seemed to take the edge off of things. But Peter knew he had to start planning, coming up with ways to protect both wife and son. Without the help, extra eyes and savvy of his best friend to depend on now, everything was going to fall upon his shoulders.

The burden of that thought was replaced by the sudden, prickly awareness that he was being _watched_.

Peter looked all about, but saw nothing, and no one. A gentle breeze teased the last few dry leaves clinging to branches, and stirred a blanket of fallen ones on the ground.

He was thinking about making a fire and warming water for a sponge bath and to use the last of the instant coffee in his backpack, but thought better of it. There could be Marauders nearby. Smoke from a fire would certainly draw their unwanted attention. And unlike the Infected, daylight would not deter them from heaping misery upon survivors.

Peter quickly filled the canteens with water and raced back inside, locking and once again barricading the door behind him.

~WC~

He watched Peter from the dark, cool, shady thicket of bushes and trees. Saw him getting water and racing back into the house. He wanted to call out to his friend. Needed his help. But he was so uncertain, so unsure.

Something was different.

He was different, from the moment he awoke.

He knew a change of some kind had occurred sometime at dawn.

But it wasn't what he was expecting. Not in the least.

Sounds were overwhelming him, as were smells. He heard motorcycle engines. Three of them. Could be Marauders. Close. Wondered if they noticed the house from the highway. But the sounds of their engines receded, letting him know they were safe from attack. For now.

How could he tell with such surety, such pinpoint accuracy? Maybe it was just his imagination, or fever dream.

But his fever broke hours ago.

Also stimulating his senses was the presence of a fat little rabbit, a few feet away, sitting still among a pile of leaves, as if hoping to remain camouflaged by its environment, unnoticed.

He was suddenly aware of a mighty hunger rumbling deep in his gut.

Neal reached out and snatched the rabbit by the neck before it ever knew what had happened to it.

End chapter 4

 _I hope you're liking this so far. I thought it would only be a couple of chapters, but the ideas kept growing. Can you guess where this is going next? If you like any of this story at all, please be kind and shoot me a review or two. And if you really like it, please recommend it. You're wonderful. Thanks for reading._


	5. Chapter 5

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 5

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

GILEAD

"Seriously...how much longer?" Neal asked, rubbing his face to wake himself up. "We've been at this for hours..."

He looked up and noticed that Janice was staring at him enrapt, as if she'd been listening to a scary campfire story. She was captivated. She was hooked. And she was miffed that he had interrupted his story. Janice quickly caught herself and stopped the tape.

"I am SO sorry!" she declared, both flustered and flummoxed. "Of course you need a break. I-I-I think _I need a break_ after that."

"I'm glad you find my life story so fun and entertaining."

"It's not that," Janice said, embarrassed even more, and even a little defensive at the accusation.

"You just want to know what happened to the bunny."

"My supervisor would send me back to the lab if he caught wind of my sophomoric behavior. Please accept my apology."

"No need to apologize," said Neal, flashing one of his well-practiced smiles. _Never underestimate the power of a smile, even in a post-apocalyptic world of Infecteds,_ he mused.

"So...what happened to the bunny?" she asked sheepishly.

"If you must know, I didn't bite its head off or rip into its flesh with my bare teeth."

"Oh. I mean, of course you didn't."

"Did you really think...?"

"No! Okay, for a moment, I considered... But you did eat the bunny...?"

"Do you know how long we'd gone without eating meat?"

"I'm not protesting the eating of the bunny. It's all about survival."

"Circle of life," said Neal.

"Please don't sing the song."

"I could, but I promise I won't."

They laughed. A genuine comfortable moment. Neal sat back in the chair and stretched.

"So, how about that break?" he asked, pleading with his big blue eyes. He was working her, seeing how far he could get with her. How much more could he push her? _Let him outside for a breath of fresh air? Bring him something he could use as a weapon, maybe? Leave the door unlocked..._

"There's only about fifteen minutes – give or take – left on the tape," she said. "How about we finish it, and I give you the next four hours to sleep without interruption?"

"That sounds like a plan," Neal said. He pushed himself forward and clasped his hands, ready to continue.

~WC~

He could see his reflection in the spring, see his face rippling with the gentle movement of the surface as he dipped his hand in and cupped water to his chapped, cracked lips. The water soothed his burning throat but also set off a wave of nausea as it landed in his long-empty belly. He choked, coughed and brought up bloodied phlegm that had been rattling in his chest and throat for hours. His hand shook as he brought it back to his mouth again, and he thought he might faint. Aside from that, however, from what he could tell, he was still very much alive, and very much Neal Caffrey.

But his suffering was far from over.

His body still ached from fever. Even in the warm morning sun he felt chilled through and through. The wound, which he had not even bothered to care for (thinking that it would be of no consequence anyway) was going septic. If he didn't clean and bandage it up soon, it was going to be a much bigger problem later. Too late for stitching, he assumed. When and if it actually healed, it was going to leave one mother of a scar.

 _But how could this even be?_

Maybe Neal had miscalculated. Maybe in his fevered dreams he had somehow mistaken minutes for hours. Yet how else would he explain the emergence of the sun? Maybe the virus was mutating, slowing itself down in the way it changes people. Or maybe...maybe…

No. It couldn't be. Could Neal truly be that lucky?

Excitement fluttered in his gut like a thousand butterflies being loosed all at once. His breath caught in his throat as he considered the massive improbability of his conclusion.

 _Maybe he was immune._

 _Immune._

His head swam at the thought. Neal Caffrey had cheated all his life; he'd cheated at almost everything. He had taken whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and defended his right to have the finer things in life without struggle. Why not have your cake and eat it too? But this...

Now he was cheating death. It hardly seemed fair. Guilt was struggling with elation and threatened to win...almost. It wasn't something he'd done. It had to be something in his genetic make up, something in his blood - things over which he had no control. Why should he question this moment of tremendous fortune?

Mostly because he didn't know how long it would last.

Besides, considering the mess the world was in, was immunity really such a gift?

It wasn't as if he were immune to dying...or to suffering or pain, as his weakening body had already potently suggested. He was just one of the few, the one-in-a-thousand, or one-in-a-million, to have survived the bite of the Infected and escaped the Krippen virus' mutant vampire strain.

Still, he'd take this _get out of jail free card_ gladly.

Regardless of what had or hadn't happened, Neal thought it best that he keep far away from the house until he was certain. If suddenly fate took a nasty 180-degree turn and the virus decided to run it's course, he wanted to give Peter, El and the baby a fighting chance to escape him. He hoped, upon turning, to have no memory of the house or of Peter being there. And he hoped he was far away enough that he would not pick up on their scent trail, as Infecteds are known to do.

Next, he began, with some amusement, looking for more proofs of his possible immunity.

Hair, teeth and tongue were all still intact and operational. Could he speak?

"I am the very model of a modern major general," he said, feeling his raw throat burn, but still able to utter the words, even fake a bad British accent. What Infected would fake a British accent?

He looked at his filthy hands. His nails, though encrusted with dirty and dried blood, were still intact. His original nails should have sluiced off by now, leaving near translucent, animalistic claws...

The sun, he remembered the sun, as he noticed how it was beginning to warm his back. Not burn. If he was an Infected, he would not be able to stand the ultraviolet rays.

He turned to look over his shoulder at the morning sun rising in the east and squinted, eyes somewhat sensitive to the burgeoning brightness, but this was nothing compared to what he had seen in the past. An Infected's reaction to the sun was far more than mere squinting. It was violent and overwhelmingly reactive. Their skin smoked and burned as if catching fire, blistered as if being consumed by acid, and the creatures screamed and howled like beasts fighting to break free of heaven's light to retreat back to hell's cold darkness.

But Neal did none of these things. And yet, he knew, fundamentally, deep down, that something in him had still, indeed, _changed_.

He just couldn't explain it or define it. It was like something in corner of his eye…

All of his memories of life before and after Krippen were still lodged in his human hard drive, so he knew he was still very much himself. But something about him wasn't like it was before all this began.

Could he see any better? He tested the theory on his surroundings. Green was green, brown was brown. Nothing thrilling there.

Could he hear any better? Nope.

Was he stronger? Hardly. At least, not at this particularly moment.

So much for his imagined mutant super powers.

He unzipped his hoodie, and out poked the head of the fat rabbit he had earlier found. Its nose was working double-time, trying to catch wind of what was going on. It had grown quite comfortable and fond of the warmth found inside Neal's hoodie, against his flat, fever-warmed stomach. Perhaps, before the fall, it had been some child's much beloved pet, and had grown used to human contact.

He held the rabbit up to his face and looked into its little shiny black eyes.

"Well, my furry friend, I can't read your mind, so that's not what's changed either," he said. "Doesn't take a mind reader to know you're scared and hungry. So am I, little fella. So am I."

He gently encouraged the rabbit to return to his nice warm ersatz pouch.

"You know what I'm thinking, buddy?" he asked as he zipped his hoodie back up and petted the little creature as it writhed until if found it's favorite spot.

"I'm thinking how good you're gonna taste roasted over a spit. Don't be mad. Circle of life."

The song came to his mind, and, amusingly, Neal could not get it out of his head for hours.

~WC~

Peter and El ate what was left of the half-Odwallah bar, the one they had previously saved for Neal, and shared a small can of devilled ham. They also drank plenty of water from the spring, but it did little to ease the desperate hunger they both felt.

Peter thought of Neal, and how the young man was always so exceptionally talented when it came to foraging for food and finding the best stuff. It was as if he had some sort of internal mechanism that was forever geared toward acquiring that which was most priceless or precious.

Peter looked at the near empty can of devilled ham and smiled. As he ran his finger around the inside of the can to scoop out the last of the congealed, gelatinous fat that was always left inside, and pop the salty remnants into his mouth, he remembered how Neal had searched high and low until he came upon that precious, paper-covered can. He was so happy when he presented it to Peter.

With gratitude, Peter promised to save it for a special day. He figured that the birth of his son qualified as a most special day. Unfortunately, it also meant that their supplies had been exhausted.

He was torn. He needed to go foraging a.s.a.p. The situation was critical. El had to eat. He had to eat. But Peter shuddered at the thought of leaving El and the baby all alone.

He reached into his backpack, pulled out a well-worn map and laid it out on the floor. It looked as if the nearest town was a little less than ten miles away. Ten miles! How could he even be sure he would find anything when he arrived? What if the place had already been picked clean or destroyed, burnt to the ground, by marauders, or overrun with Infected? Would the trip be worth it?

Peter had to do something.

He knew that it would take at least three hours to walk ten miles. No, he thought better - add an hour. Three for a healthy person, moving at about three miles an hour. Considering his current condition - severe fatigue, fatal hunger and painful old and recent injuries, he doubted he could keep up a good pace. So, four hours to find the town, and hour or so to cull from it and pack up whatever he could carry and another four hours to haul it back to the house.

By then, it would be long past nightfall. Far too dangerous.

So…change of plan. He would rise before first light…about 6:15 by his estimate, and start out for town. With any hope he could accomplish the task and be back no later than 4pm, at least an hour before dark.

He'd leave the deer rifle for El, just in case Marauders showed up looking for a flophouse for the day. Luckily they hated staying in one place too long. If they came within a hundred yards of the house, he knew his wife could easily pick them off, one by one. She was a crack-shot, which made him smile with pride. He'd taught her everything he knew. And then, when he ran out of stuff to teach, Neal also taught El a thing or two about shooting.

Which brought him back to the business of Neal.

Tonight, as the sun began to descend behind the trees, he would claim the window as his spot, and, with rifle in hand, he would wait for Neal to return. He fully expected him to come back. And when he did, Peter would keep his promise.

 _One bullet in the head…destroying the brain…_

As the hours wore on, the sick feeling associated with what he had to do became the only thing he could think of. If only there was another way.

The moment shadows spread across the lawn, Peter perched himself at the window…loaded the rifle…adjusted the scope, and waited, and hoped and prayed that Neal would not come. Prayed that if he did, that he could put him down with one shot, and the sound would not make them vulnerable to whoever or whatever else was out there.

 _This has to be done._

As darkness descended, Peter felt a growing heaviness in his gut. When it was light, there was hope. Now in the darkness...he could only dourly quote his one-time mentor:

" _It appears this moment was inevitable…"_

"Hon...?" El spoke quietly in the dark, while holding her sleeping baby.

"Yeah?"

"I wish I could take this awful burden off your shoulders."

"Shhh..." he said. He didn't want to talk about it.

"When it's done…don't tell me anything. I don't want to know."

"I promise, El."

"Maybe someday."

"Okay."

"Hon?"

"Yes?" he said, a little more irritated then he meant to sound. He was trying to concentrate, after all. He had to kill his friend.

"You can make it so he doesn't feel anything, right?"

"He won't be Neal anymore. It won't matter."

"But he _was_ Neal. Make sure he doesn't suffer. Can you do that for me?"

"I promise," he said, and fortified himself against the weakness of regret warring with his resolve.

Blessed silence returned.

And so did Neal.

Peter quickly acquired his target through the powerful scope. Saw Neal walking toward the house...

 _Walking?_

Closer…

 _Too dark to see…_

Closer…

 _Got him…_

"What's happening, hon? It is Neal?" El asked nervously.

"Sshh…"

"Hon?"

"It's almost over…"

He gave the trigger a little squeeze, not yet ready to fire, biding his time, aiming for his head…

 _Destroy the brain, or else he'll…_

His stomach churned.

Sweat ran down his forehead, into his eyes. He blinked twice to clear his vision and reacquired his target.

Neal was heading for the porch.

 _You're my best friend…_

And then he heard it…at the very same moment he pulled the trigger. Had he heard it first, he would have dropped the weapon. But it happened just when he fired. Right at the same moment, as if fate was intervening…or deserting him.

"PETER!"

BAM.

Was he hearing things? Was wishful thinking creating auditory hallucinations?

Down Neal went, like a falling tree.

Peter made the shot. Hit him. But did the bullet make it to the brain? He'd moved, every so slightly when heard his name being shouted…

 _Infecteds don't shout! Infecteds don't speak!_

He raced down stairs, as fast as his rubbery legs could carry him, past his barricade and out the front door to the porch.

There was no one there.

Had he imagined the entire thing?

He moved to the spot where he thought he saw Neal fall. Moonlight revealed little, but it did shine on something that looked inordinately like blood.

He hit him. His target bled. Somehow he was able to get away. But how far could he go?

At least he knew the shot was not completely true, or else he'd be burying Neal right about now.

Raising his weapon against whatever might be out in the woods, he followed the blood trail to the stream.

Neal was lying on the ground, semi-conscious, bleeding from a wound on the side of his head. Peter was equal parts broken hearted and elated. He'd shot his friend, but he hadn't killed him.

 _But why was he unchanged?_

"How could…how…?"

Peter moved cautiously closer…

"Neal…?"

Neal moved, grimaced, grit his teeth, and moaned.

"Neal…I need you to say something else…anything. Just…let me know you're still who you are."

Neal could only groan as he fought against unconsciousness.

"Neal…I'll give you one more chance. I need you to speak. Please speak to me."

Neal groaned again in an attempt to speak.

As Peter got closer, he saw something odd…something moving around Neal's stomach, under his hoodie like something out of a horror movie. What new mutation, what new horror, was this?

Neal reached up for the zipper…

"Don't move!"

…and pulled it down a bit, just to his sternum…

"Neal…!"

A fat gray rabbit poked his head out.

"I brought dinner," Neal managed to say before he passed out.

END CHAPTER 5

Hope you enjoyed. If you were moved, frightened, or amused in any way, I hope you do me a righteous and leave review. Please recommend to others, and please check out my other stories, like "Save Me If You Can" and "Criminal." Thank you so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 6

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

~WC~

Neal slept and woke so often that he lost all track of time and length of days. He woke to sunshine, and later to stark darkness, only to bright sunshine again. He woke in a fit of heat and raging nightmares that seemed all too real. He fought back Infecteds in his dreams and cried out in his sleep and woke shivering and screaming when his fever dreams convinced him with great certainty that he was being bitten all over again. He would only find himself alone in the dark, lying on a mattress dampen by his own sweat, sheets tossed and torn asunder.

He woke up once to what he assumed had to be an illusion. His head was resting in the lap of a beautiful woman. She was lit by low amber candlelight and looked so much like an angel that Neal felt a twinge of shame to be so close to one so pure. Her long black hair cascaded down her shoulders and tickled the tip of his nose as she moved. Her eyes were bright blue even in this semi-darkness, and her voice was warm as honey and as familiar as family.

"Easy, Neal," he heard the angel say softly, as she placed a chipped cup to his dry lips. He sipped warm, greasy broth and knew by the slightly gamey taste that it was rabbit.

This was the thought that brought him home.

He felt the fever break in an instant, though he was certain his inability to comprehend time was still at play. The brew made his stomach ache and convulse at first, but soon his system calmed enough to let him consume the entire cupful.

"Good job, Neal."

The angel who held him gingerly stroked his hair back from his face and combated the remnant of his fever with a cool cloth. She hummed softly as she ministered to him, and gently changed his pus and blood-encrusted bandages on his shoulder, as well as the one around his head.

"Elizabeth," he said in a scratchy whisper in a fleeting moment of clear-headed recognition. He was beyond grateful to discover that his angel was actually his friend.

"Welcome back," she replied sweetly.

"From the dead, feels like. The baby…how's your baby?"

Her smile was like Christmas morning.

"Perfect. So perfect. He's sleeping. You'll meet him soon enough."

"Peter...?"

"Foraging. He'll be back soon."

"Okay," he said, allowing exhaustion to usher him back below the surface of wakefulness, into an instant deep sleep.

~WC~

The next time Neal awoke there was no angel.

But he was lucid, and the pain was a dull, unrelenting throb.

He forced himself up on his elbows and strained to see where he was.

Inside. Somewhere. A small room. Small window, partially boarded up. Old daybed, bare mattress. Screechy metal springs. Sunlight casting warm shadows on the foot of the bed and floor.

Neal reached up to touch the side of his head. The bandage was fresh, a torn-off shirtsleeve. A spot of dried blood on the outside felt rough and crinkly to the touch.

Oh, yeah… _Peter shot me_.

He pushed himself up a little more, even though it hurt like crazy to do so, and slowly leaned back against the cracked plaster wall, feeling his bottom dip deeper into the thin, worn mattress. It smelled of dust and mildew and oldness, but he didn't mind. He was still alive. He held his head down, hoping the throbbing would lessen, but it only increased. Not a good idea.

The hoodie he had worn earlier lay across his midsection like a puny blanket. His ripped and bloodied, smelly shirt had been removed, replaced by a dark gray tee shirt that read "Quantico" across the chest.

Neal pushed back the garment from the neck to find that his shoulder bandages had recently been changed. Gauze and another sacrificed tee shirt were wrapped thickly under his arm, around his shoulder, and around his neck. Before he could make further assessment of his situation, the bleached and rotting door to the little room creaked open.

Peter stuck his head in.

"Look who's still alive," he said, beaming. "I come bearing gifts." He proffered Neal a canteen of water, a microwavable soup with a faded label – beef and vegetables – and a red plastic spoon.

"You shot me, then you bandaged me up and give me food. I'm getting mixed signals, Peter."

The last time Neal had seen Peter smile so broadly was when he found him on Cape Verde. Peter eased down on the edge of the daybed by Neal and shook his head.

"In all my days, I have never known anyone to be as lucky as you."

Peter hugged Neal with great enthusiasm.

"Easy!" warned Neal, yet he himself did not want to let his friend go.

When finally Peter did pull away, he stared at Neal hard. Looking for what, Neal could only imagine.

"I'm me," Neal said.

"Yeah? Prove it."

"I still think I'm smarter than you."

"That's m'boy."

"How's El?"

"Aw, she's great, considering."

"No complications?"

"Text book delivery. I might rent myself out as a midwife, once we get to Vermont, earn a little extra food."

"You may have found your calling. I thought I heard a baby crying, and I think El fed me broth, but I was so out of it I didn't know if it was a dream or what. Boy or girl?"

"Boy."

"Aw, congrats, Peter. You name him yet?"

"We'll tell you his name when we introduce you."

"Why so formal? Let's go see him now."

"No-no. Right now, I need to know about you. So...how about you, Neal? How the heck are you sitting here talking to me?"

"You mean after you shot me?"

"Look, about that..."

"I'm just giving you a hard time," Neal said. "I know why you did it. I would've done the same."

"I could've killed you. If you hadn't shouted out… I saw what that Infected did to you. We both know what was supposed to happen. He tore out a pretty sizeable chunk of your shoulder..."

"You don't have to be so graphic about it. I lived it, remember?"

"How is it you're still alive, Neal? How is it you're still _you_?"

Neal shook his head, and regretted the movement as the room spun a little.

"I really don't know what to tell you, Peter. I got sick, really sick...and I thought that I was...I thought it was all over. We both know just a scratch from one of those things is enough to change a man.

"It should've changed me. I know it should've changed me. Or I should've died... But after the fever, and the sickness...I woke up by the stream, and I was still me. Same old Neal. I can't explain it."

Now was not the time to bother Peter with his odd suspicions. Even if something in him had been altered by exposure to the Krippen virus, it should have manifested itself in some way by now. Whatever change may have occurred within him, he was certain, or at least, hopeful that he was no threat to the Burkes.

"There's only one logical explanation," said Peter. "You're immune. You've got some kind of immunity to the Krippen virus."

"I guess," said Neal, but not with the kind of enthusiasm Peter seemed to be expecting.

"You did the impossible," said Peter. You may look like crap, but you survived. That's gotta mean something."

"Of course it does. Being here means everything. Being with friends, being a team…you're my family."

Peter went quiet for a beat, and a somber look claimed his face.

"When I saw..."

Peter gestured toward Neal's shoulder.

"When I saw what had happened...when It bit you…it was a...I couldn't..."

Emotion stole Peter's voice away for a moment.

"I know," said Neal. "I didn't know how to say goodbye to you."

"Glad we didn't have to," Peter said, patting Neal on his uninjured shoulder.

Neal tried to stand up again, but dizziness sent him back against the wall.

"Whoa," Peter chastised. "You need to rest, and you need to eat."

He tapped the top of the soup can in Neal's hand to make his point. "You'll have to eat it cold. I don't want to risk making another fire. Smoke might give us away. Thanks for the rabbit, by the way. Once again, Neal Caffrey saves the day."

Neal let himself laugh gently at Peter's ribbing.

"My pleasure."

"Eat that, sleep some more. Get your strength back. We hit the road tomorrow."

"You've got a plan?"

"I do. I took a look at the map again," Peter said, producing the worn map from his back pocket and spreading a folded section out on the daybed for Neal to look at.

"Did a little exploring yesterday. Seems like I was off on our location."

"You had a lot on your mind."

"True that."

" _True that_?"

"Shut up. I did a little scouting, came across a few road signs. We've already covered nearly 340 miles..."

"That leaves about...what... sixty or so to go?"

"Looks like it."

"Peter," Neal said, feeling hope for the first time since they began the journey, "we can cover that in a couple of days, if Elizabeth's up to it."

Peter laughed. "I can barely keep her still. She's already making plans. She's rigged her own little baby carrier."

An odd chill suddenly ran down Neal's back, and fear shone in his bright blue eyes.

"What is it?" Peter asked. "Neal?"

"Nothing. Just...when we get there…if I am immune...what do you think they'll do to me?"

Peter thought about it for a moment, and drew conclusions that immediately began to haunt his own thoughts. Thoughts he would not yet share with Neal.

"I imagine they'll want to test you...blood samples, that kind of thing."

"Sounds innocent enough."

"Yeah."

They both suspected it might not be as innocent as that.

"Look, I wouldn't worry about it," Peter said with not as much certainty as Neal would have liked. "You just get some rest. When we get to Vermont, we'll check it out thoroughly, and if we don't like what we see, we're out of there."

"Right," said Neal, with not as much certainty as Peter would have liked.

~WC~

"Neal…I'd like you to meet..."

Peter and El stood before the daybed. She was holding the tiny swaddled creature in such away that he could see his scrunched up, almost frowning face.

He'd seen that same frown before on Peter's face.

"...Neal Clinton Peter Burke."

Neal was speechless. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, back securely against the wall.

"Can I…?"

Elizabeth smiled and instantly surrendered her baby into Neal's arms. He laughed even as he felt tears rolling down his face.

"Wow," was all he could say. "Wow. He's beautiful."

"Yes he is," said Elizabeth.

"You named your baby after me?"

"And Jones," said Peter.

"And Peter of course," said El as she latched an arm around her husband. "The three closest, dearest men in my life. You kept me alive, all of you. You taught me how to survive."

"You taught me," countered Neal. And now, I -"

GILEAD

Six armed guards in army fatigues burst into the room as if ready to put anyone down who stood in their way. Neal, accustomed to weapon-carrying authority types, remained perfectly still, hands flat on the table where everyone could see them and no one would question whether or not he posed a threat.

Janice, however, was appalled by the abrupt and threatening interruption and stood so fast her chair tipped over and slammed upon the floor.

"What do you think you're doing!" she cried. "There's no need for this! He isn't a threat to us!"

"Just following orders," said one of the Guards.

"Whose orders?"

From somewhere behind Janice a woman spoke. Her voice was soft yet authoritative.

"Mine. Stand down, Janice."

Janice turned and quieted instantly, as if out of not only respect of authority, but out of something akin to...adoration.

Neal slowly stood, believing for the moment that he was not in imminent danger, hoping he was right.

The woman was tall and thin, with long black hair pulled into a tight braid, and a shock of white on either side of her head. She wore faded jeans and a white tee shirt covered in a lab jacket, and hiking boots. She kept her hands in her pockets as she entered. Her beauty was understated, as if she preferred it that way.

She stared at Neal, never blinking as she regarded him from head to foot. She offered him neither a smile nor a hand, but somehow Neal knew not to take offense.

"So…you are Neal Caffrey," was all she said.

"Yes."

"Hm." Then, "Bring him."

She left quickly while the armed guards encircled Neal.

"Where are they taking me?" he asked Janice nervously as he moved toward the door.

"I...I don't know. I'm sure it will be all right."

"I'm not so sure," said Neal as one of the guards gestured for him to keep walking.

~WC~

As they lead Neal across the compound, it was more than a bit obvious that every eye was upon him. People stopped whatever they were doing - washing and hanging clothes, fixing vehicles, cooking, painting, sweeping, cleaning guns - to gawk at Neal's every step.

Some stood or moved closer as if to get a better look. But the Guards seemed to discourage anyone from getting close to Neal.

It was more as if they were protecting Neal from the people, he noticed, than protecting the people from him.

"This should be interesting."

They brought him to a building that he was certain at one time must have been a bank or some such financial institution. The halls were cavernous, all marble, tile and teak and low hanging light fixtures that were more decorative than functional now. While the elevators were dead and dark, the marble steps were polished and gleaming.

Down a long, cool and dark corridor they took him, and then stopped him to open a set of wooden double doors. He waited for the guards to gesture him to enter, and was quite surprised when they did not enter with him.

It was a huge office that may once have been headquarters to the bank president or some such executive. Now it was being tasked as a small lab and living quarters. A huge round, decades old bank vault door took up one entire wall of the office. There was light and power enough to run the several laptops and a few pieces of lab equipment, along with three flat screen monitors.

"Come in," he heard the tall woman speak, and he took only one more step into the room.

She was sitting at her banker's desk looking intently at the three flat screen monitors.

"Sit. Please."

"I want to see my friends."

The woman said nothing, but continued sharing at one of the monitors.

"I won't cooperate until I see them."

Again, the woman said nothing.

"I said…"

"Yes…your friends. They are being sent for. They will be here shortly. Please sit down."

"Why?"

"Because, by standing there you are a distraction, and I detest distractions."

"I mean why am here?"

Again she was silent.

Neal didn't want to, but he eased himself into the leather armchair by the woman's desk. He took advantage of the silence to note his surroundings and see what he could use or exploit. And how to escape…

Nothing in this cavernous room matched or went together. It was as if the woman had just grabbed willy-nilly whatever worked and dragged in it, forcing it into service.

That was a little how Neal was feeling at the moment.

"I supposed I should introduce myself," she said, eyes remaining glued to the monitor. "I'm a bit of an introvert, not very good with people. At least that is what I am told. But I am very good at what I do."

"And what is that?" Neal asked.

"Problem solving."

"And how am I a problem?"

She looked away from her monitor now, and dead at Neal.

"You're not. You may be the solution."

"You mean, my immunity."

"Yes. But it is so much more than that, Mr. Caffrey."

"Neal," he said. "If you're going to slice me up for the good of science, we may as well be on a first name basis."

"I am not here to…as you say…slice you up, Neal."

"What, then? Put me in a cage and monitor me?"

"Why do you think that?"

"You're a scientist, I'm assuming. I'm your new lab rat. You've kept me in quarantine, refused to let me see me friends or even know how they're doing. What else should I expect?"

"You're right. Partially. I am a scientist. My life is dedicated to finding a way to stop the Krippen virus. And you, my friend, hold a very important key."

She turned one of her monitor screens to face Neal, and sat back to watch him. Her eyes seemed to sparkle, an alternative to smiling, he mused.

"I am Doctor Nadira Aram."

"I know that name. You worked with her. Dr. Krippen."

"I did."

"Why should I trust you?"

"You don't have to trust me. But for the record, I severed my ties with Dr. Krippen long before she began testing her cancer vaccine. I thing which I vehemently protested."

"Convenient."

"Unfortunate. Perhaps I could have stopped the tests."

"Too late now."

"Yes. I've done a bit of research on you, Mr. Caffrey."

"Neal," he reminded her.

"Neal, then. Despite the disarray the world has been thrown into by Krippen, the Internet, like the cockroach and Twinkie, survives. You have had a very checkered life. I do not say this to shame you or to cast judgment. But, after a life of appropriating things of great monetary value, it appears that the universe, or God, has given you a chance to now give back."

"So this is where you tell me that in order to save humanity, I have to let you kill me."

"Neal, the last thing I want is your death. Do you have any idea _what you are_?"

"I'm immune, so I guess that makes me the cure."

She smiled now. It was almost enchanting. Almost.

"Are you familiar with the poison dart frog, Neal? It's tiny and quite colorful, beautiful to the eye, but deadly to what may prey upon it. It secretes a poisonous toxin through its skin that can kill its larger natural predators in mere seconds. The world is filled with incredible survivors like this. Plants, insects..."

She stopped and attacked her keyboard, fingers flying until a new image appeared onscreen.

"What you are seeing," said Dr. Aram, "are blood cells. Human blood cells. Doing what they do quite normally. And these, on the lower left portion of the screen, are the blood cells of one infected with the Krippen virus. Now, watch and see what happens. The Infected cell attacks the human cell, corrupting it, co-opting it, and ultimately changing it...there...did you see?"

"Yes." Neal shivered.

"Now…observe…"

Her fingers flew across the keyboard again.

"…what happens here."

Neal watched as a human blood cell, when introduced to Infected cells, reacted quite differently.

"Whoa!"

Neal sat forward, eyes wide and bright as he watched the biological drama playing out on the monitor.

"The human cell repelled the infected cell. It couldn't get away fast enough."

"Look again."

Dr. Aram struck a few keys to slow down the speed of the image.

Neal watched, unwilling to blink, afraid he'd miss whatever it was Aram wanted him to see.

"It's as if the human cell…attacked _it_ ," said Neal. "The infected cell almost seemed...panicked. Not a very scientific description…"

"But quite astute, as well as accurate."

"So what does this have to do with me, Dr. Aram?"

"Everything."

She stood and walked toward the bank vault, and began working the combination.

"Your survival, you're immunity…the fact that you and your friends have traveled over 400 miles, mostly on foot, and experienced only one incident of attack by Infected…surely you've wondered at this."

"You're saying it wasn't a bold stroke of luck, careful planning or providence?"

"I'm saying it may be merely biology. Science. Like the poison dart frog…"

Dr. Aram turned the latch and Neal heard the locks slam open.

"If I'm right…the war against Krippen is about to take an unexpected turn."

She pulled opened the heavy door and instantly an Infected leaped from the floor, straight at Neal.

Neal stood, terrified, shaking. He was relieved to see that the thing had been shackled by the neck and wrists, and by the waist and ankles. Chains were pinioned deeply into the vault's walls. But the thing was fighting hard to break loose.

Quickly Neal reached for Dr. Aram, as if to pull her from the clutches of the horrible beast, but she raised her hands, oddly calm, gesturing Neal to leave her be. She stood mere inches from the snarling, snapping creature, as if daring it to bite her.

"Why do you have that thing in here? What if it gets out?" Neal said nervously.

"He won't. I need to make a point. I need to make you see…"

"See what?"

"Move closer to it, Neal."

"You're kidding me, right? What if the chains don't hold?" 

"Trust me. Trust _yourself_."

Neal swallowed hard and took a step toward the Infected.

The Infected noticed Neal - like an animal might catch the scent of a bigger beast - and froze.

Neal took another stop closer.

The Infected took a step back.

"He…?"

"Closer, Neal."

Neal felt just enough courage…or stupidity…to step closer.

The thing howled and retreated, stumbling over itself, backing up into the vault.

"The human blood on the computer's monitor was yours, Neal. Taken from you when you arrived Gilead. Something in you repels the Infected."

Neal was standing right at the threshold of the vault now. The Infected was backed against the wall, wailing as if it were in abject pain.

It all made some strange sense to him now.

Nothing had changed in him, but had merely been turned up, like the volume on a car radio. The frequency had been strengthened by the introduction of Infected saliva, but the signal had always been within him. The fever from the bite, or the infection itself, merely made it finally noticeable to Neal.

The Infected he had fought and killed, the one that had bitten him…Neal had believed that the only reason he had beaten and killed it was because it was weak, starved, an injured stray.

Now he knew better.

He'd run terrified through the streets of New York at sundown, and in the blackest night. Not once had he been attacked, or even encountered an Infected. He had taken to the road with Peter and Elizabeth, and while Infecteds were always nearby, _they were never attacked._

Because Neal was there.

"How…?" was all Neal could say. "How is it I…have this…?"

"That I cannot tell you. Not without extensive research. What I can tell you is this: The future of humanity is in your hands."

"I'm not the cure?"

"No, my dear Neal Caffrey. You are not the cure to Krippen. You are a _weapon_."

END CHAPTER 6

 _I hope you had a great Thanksgiving! Gosh, I hope you're encouraged to keep reading this! If you are, please do drop me a review. I'd love to know what you're thinking. For return readers, wow! Thank you so much. For new readers, thank you for finding it and I hope you'll check out the next chapter!_


	7. Chapter 7

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 7

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

~WC~

In some small but significant way, Neal understood. Yet there were questions, so many questions that it made his head swim and his stomach churn when he tried to make any real sense of it all.

 _A weapon?_ What did that mean?

A gun, he reasoned, you can shoot. He had a fleeting memory of cold, heavy steel in his grip, the smell of gun oil and spent shells burning his nostrils. He imagined the kick that would send shockwaves radiating through his arms when he fired.

A knife…well, it was also pretty clear what to do with it and how to use it, he reasoned. 

A grenade – you pull the pin, throw hard and take cover.

 _"A weapon...?"_

Dr. Aram shut the vault and spun the old fashioned combination lock to secure the Infected creature behind it.

"You saw how it reacted to your presence," she said anxiously, "just like the blood in the petri dish… _your blood_. The fear in its eyes…fear for it's own mortality. It was palpable… _primal_. You are a natural threat to its existence!"

"I got that," Neal ventured, "but how? How is it that I'm…what is it about me? What's _in_ me that could cause such a strong a reaction?"

The Doctor merely shook her head and rested her hands on her slim hips.

"I have a theory," she said. "You may not like what you hear."

Neal swallowed hard. His eyes widened, bright, curious and quite afraid.

"Tell me," he demanded, though his voice breathy with disquiet.

"We really don't have time for this, Mr. Caffrey."

"TELL ME."

"SuperMax, New York State, cell block E…"

Anxiety sliced into his gut.

"What about it?" he asked warily.

"That is where you were incarcerated. Am I correct? Until 2008, I believe?"

"How do you know? How do you know this? I never said anything about being in prison…"

"I recognized your name. I cross-referenced it with what few hard copy files I still have in my possession from before the outbreak, and it all began to make sense."

Neal took a step closer.

"Go on."

"I can't say for certain what happened, but I believe Alice…that is, Doctor Krippen, may have conducted a few illegal, clandestine experiments on a small, controlled group of prisoners…one of the many reasons why I could not in good conscious continue working for…"

Neal rushed toward the doctor, giving her pause to step back and raise her arms protectively.

"Krippen experimented on me?"

"A possibility. Again, it is merely a theory based on a few loose facts..."

"HOW? What did she do to me?"

"I do not know for certain. It could have been in the food or the water. Your morning hot cereal laced with one of a dozen versions of the anti-cancer virus in its various forms and mutations. It could have been in the air filtration system, or in the form of a fine powder brushed upon the pages of a prison library book to be absorbed by your fingertips. It could have been sprayed upon the material of your prison issued jumpsuit. By the time I caught wind of what Dr. Krippen was doing, the virus had already begun to take hold, and because you were incarcerated…"

Neal was livid, near trembling.

" _What did she do to me?"_

"SHE SAVED YOU! You may have started out as their victim, Neal, but whatever they gave you, _it save you_. You were one of the very few, or quite probably the only one who responded to the virus way you did. You were an inadvertent success, a happy accident she never got the chance to know about. There are so many probabilities. We may never know for certain."

She took a step closer to Neal. "It may be unscientific to say, but you are a miracle, Neal."

"I can't be the only one. There must be others like me."

"Possibly," she said, "but there is no way to find them. We cannot begin to understand what was done to you without extensive testing, which would necessitate putting you through severe discomfort."

"I've had enough of that," said Neal as he moved away from the doctor and stood facing the vault. He could almost hear the rapid heart beat of the thing behind the six-inch thick steel door. He could hear the heartbeat accelerate… _it was afraid of him._

Or was it just his imagination?

The doctor took a step closer and place a hand upon Neal's shoulder and felt him slightly tremble under her touch.

"We can waste our time trying to understand and analyze the causation, or we can better use our time by coming up with a way to exploit it for the sake of our survival. Your survival. I have a way in mind that can help every member of Gilead, including you and your friends. Instead of wondering how you've changed, let us focus on how to use this change. What say you, Mr. Caffrey?"

"What do you have in mind?"

~WC~

Guards escorted Neal to a wood paneled conference room that looked and smelled as if it had not been used, remodeled or dusted since the late seventies. A huge oval table of thick, unmovable oak was the centerpiece of the room, along with deep leather scoop-shaped chairs on rolling casters.

The table was set for a meal for three.

When the guards left Neal alone, he wandered about the wide room looking for a way to escape. There were no windows and no doors other than the one through which he had entered. No telltale secret exits in the walls or floors. The drop paneling had been removed from the ceiling, so there was no escaping that way, either. He assumed his placement here had been quite strategic.

There was only one way in or out.

Moments later and the door opened. He expected to see guards, but he was pleasantly surprised.

"Neal!"

Peter slipped through, followed by a grinning, teary-eyed Elizabeth.

The former agent was wearing a clean Northwestern sweatshirt and light wash jeans that fit surprisingly well. Gone was the thick graying beard he had earlier worn. Even his hair had been cut short. He was the clean-shaven FBI Agent once again, sans the off-the-rack suit and coffee spotted tie. Despite his weight loss, Peter was every bit the man Neal had remembered.

"How's it feel to be a rock star?" Peter asked with a sly grin, before he threw his arms around Neal and patted his back heartily.

"You tell me," said Neal.

Next, El, wearing a dark jeans with a thick white sweater a few sizes too big, wrapped her arms around Neal and rested her head upon his chest. Neal just held her, closed his eyes. He looked up a Peter once, just to make sure he was not somehow encroaching upon sacred ground. But he did so love Elizabeth and had feared for her many a dark, cold night. This was truly a blessing.

"How's the baby?" Neal asked finally. "How's little Neal?"

El pulled away so she could look up into his bright blue eyes.

"Talk about a rock star! Little Neal has almost everyone in Gilead wrapped around his tiny finger. People have actually offered us extra food just so they could hold him."

"He's sleeping now," said Peter, a little more suspicious of their hosts than El. "They have a makeshift neo-natal center that's almost as nice as you'd have found before Krippen. Runs on generators. And it's under round the clock protection, so they claim."

"We both were nervous about leaving Little Neal at first," El chimed in, finally letting Neal go. "But we have to start trusting people again...and no one seems to want to hurt him, or us...not yet..."

"What's happening here?" asked Peter. "What's with all the subterfuge and secrecy? First, they wouldn't let us see you. Wouldn't even tell us how you were or let us send you a message. Then all of the sudden, they're pulling us from the lunch line to come here. What's going on?"

"It's insane, Peter. Completely insane."

~WC~

They were eating soft mixed vegetables and rice in a brown gravy stew, dipping crusty, fresh baked bread into it and cleaning the sides of their bowls with it. There was a large glass of milk for Elizabeth, a tepid but welcome bottle of domestic beer for Peter and a glass of red wine for Neal. He did not dare curse the cheapness or the vintage of the grocery-store brand merlot, for never did he imagine he'd ever drink any form of wine again. Two buck Chuck was fine with him.

Once they had eaten they sat in silence for a few moments, collecting their thoughts, considering all that Neal had told them, conscious that they were probably being watched.

Neal was so grateful to be back with his friends that he did not want to risk ruining the reunion by sharing his collected fears and insecurities too quickly, but he knew he need to broach the topic before this moment was snatched away from them.

Before Neal could speak, however, Peter ended the silence in the room.

"The powers that be may be a little tight-lipped about you, but that hasn't stopped the rest of Gilead. Everybody's talking about you."

"Yeah? What are they saying?"

"That you may be some kind of answer to this thing."

Neal shook his head. "I don't know what to think, or what to do. I have a feeling they're going to use you both as leverage against me."

"Peter and I pretty much assumed that from the get-go," Elizabeth said, putting her hand atop her husband's where it rested on the table. "But we want you to know, no matter what they say, no matter how they threaten us, it's your choice."

"I don't even know what I'd be choosing," Neal said, exasperated.

"Tell us again, everything they told you," said Peter, and Neal launched immediately back into the story.

"A weapon?"

"That's what Dr. Aram said. But how do you use a human being as a weapon? Dip bullets in my blood? Use my sweat on the tips of spears?"

Peter stood up in a show of strength and security strictly for Neal's benefit.

"Okay. We'll see what they have in mind…see what they have to say. Let 'em explain themselves. If you're good with whatever it is they want you to do, if you think you can trust them… If their method for using you doesn't bring you harm, then I say, the choice is yours. But if they're talking about hurting you in the slightest way, then..."

"What if," Neal interrupted, "what if they threaten you two, or little Neal? What if they threaten to harm you or throw you outside the walls? Abandoned you to whatever's out there?"

"We survived out there before. We survived it all the way here."

"Apparently, that's because you had me. We just didn't know it and considered ourselves lucky. But they're not going to let me leave. They'll do whatever they have to do..."

"He's right," said Elizabeth. "This is about survival. They'll say please the first time and pretty please the second time, but if Neal refuses to cooperate, I bet we'll see their true colors then. They may imprison us. They may threaten to torture or even kill us."

 _"I wouldn't dream of it."_

All three turned to find Nadira Aram standing at the door. Neal felt a moment of shame, but also felt grateful that his cards were finally on the table, exposed. Now he needed to see hers.

"My friends have a valid point," said Neal. "What's to stop you from threatening to kill us or throw us to the wolves?"

"If we were still barbarians, I would agree. The truth is, Mr. Caffrey, I cannot make you cooperate. And I refuse to let anyone bring harm to either of you, as a means to an end. But we do desperately need your help. The survival of Gilead depends upon your cooperation."

Peter stepped forward protectively.

"What is it you want Neal to do?"

"First, I'd like to introduce Mr. Caffrey to the members of the Committee. If we can survive that, I'll explain everything."

~WC~

They were an eclectic mix representing every possible demographic of Gilead, a voting council of twelve individuals – thirteen counting Dr. Aram – in whose hands the fate of Gilead often rested.

Neal was relieved to see that Janice was there, a member representing the twenty-somethings as well as Gilead's medical community. He was grateful that she already knew so much of his story, and would no doubt vote sympathetically, with his best interest in mind, should a vote be necessary. He gave her a smile, and noted how her eyes dropped demurely to the tabletop, then back up to find his again. It was safe to assume that she was on his side.

The other volunteers represented members of the military and scientific community as well as "just plain folk." There were moms and dads, singles and marrieds. There was a 70-year-old bohemian writer wearing half moon specs on a chain, and a sweat stained Hawaiian shirt; a CEO-type who, despite the current state of the world, insisted upon wearing a power tie and suspenders; a teen, standing on the threshold of manhood and his first shave, who sat with a well-worn skateboard at his side; a Minister in a collar who sat in silent repose with eyes closed. He could have been praying, or simply exhausted. He never let go of his Bible from the moment he sat down.

Peter and Elizabeth insisted on remaining. Fortunately, the Committee did not deny them, and allowed them to sit against the wall to observe. Their admission for remaining was their silence.

The room fell into a deep hush when Dr. Aram stood and cleared her voice, preparing to speak.

Neal's mind wandered during the meeting. Part of it was from fatigue. The rest was because he knew that no matter what he thought or felt, he had but once choice to keep his friends safe. Dr. Aram's assurances meant little to Neal. He remembered all the ways the FBI had failed him by reneging on deals and promises to grant his freedom time after time, much to his and Peter's frustration.

No…Neal had little hope or trust in this as in all authority.

Whatever they wanted him to do, no matter how fool-hearty, no matter how dangerous or painful – Neal was committed to doing it. Listening was merely a formality…a courtesy.

"Let's cut to the chase," the agitated CEO interrupted rudely. He sounded as if he had other meetings of greater import to attend. "Is Caffrey going to help us out or what?"

"I'm right here," said Neal. "Feel free to ask me to my face."

"Well then?" he asked, turning to Neal petulantly.

"I'd like to hear the rest of Dr. Aram's presentation, since it's my skin in the game. That is, if you don't mind."

Doctor Aram nodded her thanks to Neal and continued.

"As you all know, we are always in desperate need of replenishing our ever-dwindling medical supplies, food, water, clothing. Also standard survival items such as matches, batteries, diapers. Simple things, like paper, pens, soap. Fuel usage far exceeded our conservative projections for the last three months, which means our gas tanks may be depleted before the worst part of the winter hits us.

"We have enough to feed, clothe and supply the most basic medical care to all of Gilead for less than five months. This is a very stark reality…and a very shortsighted way of dealing with the future. What if there is a flu outbreak? There will be, I can guarantee it, as the days grow colder. What if a child needs an emergency appendectomy or a mother giving birth needs a blood transfusion? And with the constant influx of survivors…"

At this, she turned and gestured to the Burkes. Peter sat up a little straighter and took his wife's hand supportively.

"…it puts further strain upon the quality of life we can provide. The writing is on the wall, gentle people. We have to venture further out. We have to go farther than a day's journey to find what we need, or perish."

The room was hushed. Neal could see that everyone seemed somehow withdrawn…afraid.

The Minister spoke.

"Dr. Aram, we don't know…we can't possibly know what's out there, or how bad it truly is. It would be suicide…"

"But we have exhausted every salvaging possibility within a twenty mile radius," she responded, fighting to temper her anger. "Every strip mall, hospital, and clinic… every mom and pop store, grocer, restaurant and gas station within a half day's journey there and back are empty. We've got to send a team deeper into the city!"

Those who remembered what the city was like paled. One woman covered her face to hide her tears. Another member crossed his arms and seemed to almost slip into a fugue state. Even CEO stared at the floor.

"I know what you are all thinking," Aram said, her voice soft, struggling through burgeoning tears. "We all remember what the city was like."

"We can't go that far!" one of the Moms said. "It isn't safe. The streets were overrun with Infected. God save us when our salvage team lose the sun."

"But if we don't go," said Janice, "If we don't do something drastic, we're dead. We just die slower, from disease and starvation."

"Exactly!" said Aram. "Life in Gilead will only grow more complicated as we slip deeper into winter. When the snow comes and roads are no longer navigable, will we be content to ration? To starve? What will we do when more survivors show up hoping to find civilization here?" 

"We can always turn them away," said CEO.

The entire room was a buzz with opinions now.

Aram was incensed by his words.

"That can _never_ be an option! We founded Gilead on the principle that we should never turn people away! Every one of you agreed to that when you arrived, when you became a citizen! And every one of you are here and alive now because of it."

"But there were half as many of us then!" said CEO. "Now you let in every broken down beggar and diseased-ridden soul that shows up! We can't handle it!"

"You realize you are making my point for me…"

Aram approached CEO and held out her hands pleadingly.

"We are growing, as any real community must to survive. If we are to continue growing, we must make provisions for those who will join us. Our strength depends upon it! We are responsible for rebuilding this world!"

"No we're not!" CEO said churlishly. "We are only responsible to ourselves."

Neal looked at Peter, his bright eyes silently pleading with his friend to back his play. Peter nodded his head just once, giving Neal his support.

Neal rose and stood with back straight and strong, and a classic Caffrey smile gracing his face.

"Excuse me!"

The room fell silent. All eyes were upon Neal.

"I realize I have no right to speak, but I feel compelled. I think what Dr. Aram is suggesting is terrifying and bordering on foolhardy. But I also think it's progressive and highly necessary. You can stretch what you have and survive a few months, a year – maybe – or you can thrive for a few more. Who knows _,_ perhaps Krippen will have run its course and civilization can start to rebuild, with Gilead as the vanguard. You heard the doctor. As outlandish and improbable as it sounds, what she told you about me is true. I wouldn't have believed it myself, if I hadn't witnessed it with my own eyes. You can send out a party with a modicum of safety. So long as I'm around, Infecteds won't come near them."

"Because you 'magically' repel them…" came CEO again. "I still want to know how the hell that's possible!"

"They said you killed an Infected with your bare hands," the Skate Boarder chimed in. "Is that true?"

"Actually," said Neal. "I used a really big knife."

The Committee began talking amongst themselves again – who is this man that he can take on an Infected with nothing but a knife and live? They argued, exclaimed, demanded, questioned. Neal turned to Peter, who could do nothing but shrug.

One of the women representing the families of Gilead stood.

"I wish to put forth a motion that Mr. Caffrey remain here in Gilead to protect our children, to protect all of us," she declared. "If it's true, then you're needed here more than out there. What if you went out there and got lost or killed? Where would that leave us?"

"She has a point!" the Bohemian Writer chimed in. "What if you're caught in a crossfire? Or everybody in your party dies and you're stranded out there? You're no good to us dead. Everybody loses."

"I appreciate the depth of your concern for me," Neal said sarcastically, anger smoldering.

CEO wasn't done yet either. He adjusted his tie and stepped away from his seat to stand at a challenging distance from Neal.

"This man can't be trusted. Even his own friends said so! I saw their transcript! They said he was a thief!"

Neal cut a glance back at Peter _. What was this about?_ He could see Peter's face turning red, and noticed his friend stir uncomfortably in his seat.

"Excuse me?" said Neal to CEO.

"I said, you're a thief and a liar. Your own friends said you were a common criminal. How do we know you're not here to rob us blind or destroy everything we've built?"

Neal wanted to hit him. Wanted to feel his knuckles make contact with the CEO's smug face and see the man's teeth stained with his own blood... He moved forward, fists balling, ready to take action…

"ENOUGH OF THIS!"

All eyes turned back to Dr. Aram.

"We cannot let fear destroy us! We cannot let the unknown hamstring us. We won't have to wait for starvation or cold or disease or even the Infecteds to destroy us. We must be better than this, or we will all perish."

Aram waited to see who would protest, who would refuse, and who would walk away. CEO returned to his seat. But Neal remained standing.

She continued.

"This is what I propose: We send out a team of twelve of our best soldiers, volunteers, of course, and heavily armed. A strike force. Their mission will be twofold: to go as far as they can – safely – and bring back whatever they can load onto two large trucks; and to test our theory about Mr. Caffrey. If they are successful, we'll send a second team, and a third… "

CEO was not yet done sharing his opinion. "Dr. Aram, correct me if I am wrong, but shouldn't you be focused on finding a cure for Krippen, and leave the strategic planning to the military experts?"

"If that's the case," she said, her accent gentle, but her anger obvious, "shouldn't you be sitting in a cubicle playing with your own little portfolio?"

The members of the Committee snickered. Elizabeth covered her mouth subtly while Peter let himself enjoy the chuckle.

"Nice one!" said Neal. He would have high fived the doctor, but he pegged her as too conservative to give in to such displays.

"How much fuel with this cost us?" This was CEO's comeback. This time, he had the attention and the sympathies of the Committee.

Aram looked at the floor at first, then lifted her chin to meet the CEO's eyes.

"Most of it."

"I rest my case," he said and returned to his seat, at the moment, triumphant.

The hush in the room was otherworldly, oddly unsettling.

Neal quickly gathered that the remaining fuel stores in question would keep them warm and generators running throughout the winter. If Aram's plan failed, they'd lose what little technology they'd been able to maintain. It was going to be a very cold few months.

Aram started toward the door, her presentation complete. "I will leave you all to vote."

Aram gestured to Neal, Peter and Elizabeth to follow her as she stepped outside, leaving the Committee to make their decision.

~WC~

The four of them sat in wobbly folding chairs lined against the walls. They could not hear what was going on inside the conference room. The silence seemed almost sacred until Neal, siting with Dr. Aram on his right, and Peter on his left, broke it with a question.

"They always this cantankerous?" he asked quietly.

"They… _we_ …are all so very scarred and damaged by the world outside of Gilead. We have all come close to death so many times. They may bicker and fight, but the truth is they know exactly what is at stake, and I depend upon that. I will stand by what they decide, one way or the other."

Neal nodded.

Dr. Aram stood, arms hugging herself, not with cold, but with self-comforting, and began to pace worriedly.

When she was out of earshot, Neal turned to face is friends.

"You told them I was a criminal?" he whispered.

"I may have intimated…I never said it straight out," Peter said defensively. "They wanted to know how the three of us were connected. They took it a little out of context…"

"I'll say."

"Once they found out I was an FBI agent, the proverbial cat was out of the bag."

"Maybe we should just cut our losses," said Neal, watching Aram and making sure she could not hear him. "Hotwire a truck, grab some stuff and get the heck out of Dodge."

"I considered that myself once or twice," Peter confessed. "I'm not completely against it."

"Then why don't we?" Neal asked anxiously.

"Because," Elizabeth said, voice low, deep and serious, "we came here because we wanted to be in a community, to be part of something. We couldn't afford to go it alone anymore. It was killing us."

Peter nodded as wise El leaned against her husband, and he put a warm, protective arm around her.

"With that said, however," she added with a slightly pained smile, "I'm all for keeping our options open."

The Conference Room door opened and Janice stuck her head out.

"We're ready."

~WC~

Dr. Aram tried not to smile or show her pleasure at the outcome of the vote. Her vote counted as well. Nine chose to send a team, though with a few codicils.

Janice read the results without emotion or commitment to the decision.

"The Committee agrees to six, not twelve soldiers…"

Aram nodded. She asked for twelve because she knew she'd get six. Had she asked for six, and she might have only gotten three.

"As for fuel, we will allow half the recommended amount to be used for the mission."

Again, she had received what she wanted by asking for more than actually needed.

"The Committee also demands that Neal Caffrey be restricted from carrying any weapons unless the strike team is under attack."

"Excuse me?" Neal interrupted.

Janice looked down at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with Neal as she continued.

"Because of Mr. Caffrey's criminal past..."

"You're kidding me!" he shouted indignantly. Peter reached out to touch Neal's shoulder, quiet him.

"…the Committee feels that it is for the safety and security of the strike team, and to make sure Mr. Caffrey does not abscond with vital Gilead supplies."

Janice sat quickly, wiping her mouth as if removing any burning residue left by her acidic words.

Aram put a hand on Caffrey's back.

"I know," she said gently. "You will earn their trust eventually, I promise you."

"Do you accept?" asked CEO.

"We do," said Aram. She looked to Neal. His face showed his anger, but he nodded once in consent.

"Let's do it," he said.

And then, someone banged a gavel.

~WC~

While the Committee filed out, Peter kept a close eye on Neal. When the moment was right, he and El approached their friend.

"This is my fault," said Peter.

"No, Peter…you can't take responsibility for their myopia. I can't say I blame them. Not like I wasn't thinking about it."

"Thinking and doing – they're two different things. You talk a good game but you always do the right thing, Neal. I'm proud of you for that."

Neal lost some of tension in his face as he smiled a little.

Dr. Aram approached.

"You should rest now, Neal. I'll have the security team escort you to your quarters. Sleep as long as you like. We leave in two days."

"One moment," said Peter, before the Doctor could walk away. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He knew he should talk it through with El first, knew that she would protest, probably refuse to speak to him…

But he knew what he was thinking…what he was about to propose was the right thing. Even though, sometimes, doing the right thing had consequences just as harsh as turning a blind eye.

He looked at El and gave her a reassuring smile before he launched into his proposal.

No…his demand.

"I want to go."

Dr. Aram looked at Peter quizzically. "You wish to leave Gilead?"

"I want to go with the strike team. I want to volunteer…go with Neal."

Elizabeth pulled away from her husband so quickly that it startled him.

"WHAT? NO! You are NOT going! Out of the question! I don't even want Neal to go!"

"Sweetheart…"

"NO! We just had a baby! You're a father now! We need you! I can't have you out there. I can't, Peter!"

"El, listen…"

Neal moved closer.

"I'm with El," he said. "You need to stay right here, Peter. You've both been through enough! I'll be fine."

"Listen to me…" Peter scrambled to collect his thoughts and explain.

"No!" Neal and Elizabeth both shouted.

"This isn't your fault, Peter! I can't let you risk your life like this."

Time for a different tactic, Peter thought, and turned to Aram.

"These soldiers," he began, "You say they're the best of the best. Exactly how good are they?"

"Former Special Ops, black ops…like I said. They survived the fall of New York. I believe, with or without Neal, every one of them could return with what we need. I would never attempt such a thing if I didn't think it was possible, or that Neal would be safe."

"Then it's settled. I volunteer."

Elizabeth grabbed his hand. "Hun…please!"

"You send Neal, you send me, too."

"Peter…" said Neal. "You don't have to do this. I'll be fine."

"Dr. Aram," Peter continued, "I'm a trained FBI agent. I'm a crack shot, and no stranger to close-quarter combat. I won't be in the way."

"It's a very generous offer," said Aram. "But our soldiers are more than capable of taking care of Neal."

"Your soldiers are trained to watch _each other's back_ ," said Peter, "not Neal's. I spent years watching out for Neal. I'm good at it. There's nary a scratch on him. Well…a minor gunshot wound to the leg…but he was two thousand miles away when that happened. Wouldn't have happened on my watch.

"If he's as important as you say, he needs to be protected. The Committee said he can't carry a gun unless there's an emergency. That puts him at a deficit, and I don't like it. You want someone to guard him, watch over him, make sure he makes it back to Gilead in one piece? That someone is me."

"Well then, Mr. Burke, if I can clear it through the Committee…we will honor your request. Welcome to the team."

As the Doctor reached out a hand to shake, make it official, Elizabeth turned and raced off.

"El!"

Peter sprinted after her.

"The quality of your friends astound me," Aram said to Neal. "They care a lot about you. You are a very lucky man."

"Luck has nothing to do with it," he said, and left to pursue his friends.

End Chapter 7

 _Thanks! Your kind attention is always a big encouragement! If you've enjoyed this in the least, please make your pleasure known with a review._


	8. Chapter 8

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 8

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for horror and violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

 _Note: Sorry for taking months to update, but once in a while life gets turned upside down. I expect to have this series finished by Halloween '16._

~WC~

Neal tossed and turned under the heavy blanket, body assailed and assaulted by an odd heat, even though it was freezing both outside and inside the small room he occupied. It wasn't a fever, not this time. He knew too well the signs of fever and infection. There were no body aches or weakness like before. Just pure heat.

This was something else entirely.

He tried to tell himself that his discomfort was merely a case of unfamiliarity with the bed and the room.

He could not con himself into believing it.

The utter silence made his ears roar as if standing at the edge of a roiling ocean. Whenever he could hear an occasional breeze whistling just outside his boarded up window, he felt a brief moment of relief.

He threw back the cover and sat up quickly, the overwhelming remnants of a quick bad dream experienced in half-sleep still lingering and making him take inventory of his body, just to be sure. No bloody wounds, no new scars, though there was pain-memory, which faded as he gained greater consciousness. The heat he had earlier felt began to dissipate a touch as the below-freezing temperatures slowly began to envelop him.

But the cold really didn't seem to bother him.

The room was pitch dark, yet his eyes could make out soft shapes that looked like shadowed velvet.

 _Was his vision always like this?_

Neal lifted his heavy, fatigued legs over the edge of the bed and let his feet slap on the cold wooden floor. He touched his bare chest, feeling his heart beating fast and somewhat furiously against his hand.

He dragged the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his body loosely and walked the floor, hoping to work off some of the tension and energy. He was never much of a fitness hound in his old life, but his mind and body certainly would have benefited from an energetic run right now, he imagined. Just to burn off this odd nervous energy.

The night before he had slept like a teenager who had been grounded in his room for a weekend, spending fifteen dreamless hours lying in one spot. Tonight was quite different. Why was sleep eluding him?

They were leaving on mission at first light.

Neal didn't know what to expect. He had no reference for this. Before, when he'd walked from June's to the Burke's in broad daylight, or even as they trudged to Vermont, he had no idea what to expect, but knew that each sundown brought them closer to tragedy.

What would this be like? Dark scenarios ran through his mind spiking his fear and adrenaline, piquing his imagination. What if whatever made him immune stopped working? What if the virus had mutated, rendering him just as normal as anyone? What if they found themselves surrounded by a voracious horde of Infected? How could one man hold them all off?

 _What if Peter got hurt or killed trying to protect him?_

Elizabeth would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself. Yet, there was a part of him that was glad, so relieved that Peter was going with him.

 _But what if…?_

Neal stopped cold when he heard a light rap on the door.

"Yeah?"

The door opened slightly and Janice, holding a burning candle and a bundle of clothing, stuck her head inside.

"Breakfast," she said. "I'd say rise and shine, but you seem to be way ahead of me."

"What time is it? 

"A little after four."

She tossed him the bundle of clothing, which included a heavy khaki green jacket, a set of drab camouflage pants and a black, long-sleeved thermal pullover.

"It's freezing," she said. "That should keep you warm."

"Thanks. Why so early?"

"Lots of prep. And you'll get to meet the team. Roll-out's a daybreak."

She left the candle and ducked out so that Neal could dress in private.

Neal dropped the blanket and quickly slipped into the army pants and the black thermal shirt. The shirt was a size too big for his thinning frame, and the sleeves were slightly long.

He threw the jacket on, but left it unzipped. When he opened the door he found Janice waiting for him.

"Let's get this over with," he said. "After you."

~WC~

"Is that…is that bacon I smell?"

Janice grinned and nodded, even as she shivered.

"Only the best for the GST," she said, hugging herself against the cold as they trudged across the dark compound.

"GST?"

"Gilead Strike Team," she told him. "Nobody wants to calls them GST but me. I like it. Sounds so…official. As for the bacon, it's a ritual, or rather, a tradition, I guess. Like when the Astronauts used to go on those lunar expeditions back in the day. The news reporters would talk about how the astronauts were having a breakfast of _steak and eggs_ before the mission. And Tang. Only, we have bacon, no steak. No Tang either. I'm not quite sure I remember what Tang is."

"You're not old enough to remember any of that," said Neal.

"Neither are you. Tell me about the GST."

~WC~

Neal knew the moment he saw them that there could be trouble.

They were nothing like the Gilead survivors he had met so far. These were rough honed outsiders, burnouts, and fringe dwellers. Watching them eat reminded him a little of watching big cats dine at the Central Park Zoo.

All of them had visible scars…and Neal wondered about the deeper scars they probably wore on the inside. A couple of them looked as if they had perhaps made a few too many drunken visits to the tattoo parlor. It was impossible for Neal to believe that these six soldiers had actually served in any real branch of the military, yet here they were. Gilead's finest.

They all eyed Neal suspiciously and with such hostility that he knew his presence was far from welcome.

When Janice encouraged Neal step up to the food table and grab a plate, he expected her to remain, sit with him...be a buffer between him and the crazy. But she didn't stay. With a smile and a gentle hand on his arm, she left him to fend for himself.

"Hi."

Two of soldiers acknowledged him – one with a snort, the other with a dead stare. Three were too busy devouring their reconstituted eggs to care if Neal even existed. The last of them was playing solitaire, clearly cheating his way through the game. None of them spoke back.

Neal jumped a bit when Peter – fully dressed in cold weather fatigues – entered and stood beside him. The once CI instantly felt a sense of relief. Butch and Sundance were reunited.

"Is that the team?" Peter asked quietly.

"Looks like it."

"Chillier in here than it is outside. Buy you a coffee?"

"Absolutely. Lots."

~WC~

Neal poached a piece of bacon from Peter's plate.

"Get your own!" Peter snapped. He would have popped Neal's hand with his fork if the former thief hadn't been so fast.

"Most of it is on your plate."

"I'm making up for lost time," Peter said, holding up a crispy-fatty piece before shoving it happily into his mouth. "Been a while since I've tasted that."

Peter wrapped a few slices in a white napkin and shoved it into a pocket. 

"For El," he explained.

"May take a little more than bacon to make her speak to you again."

"Yeah…she's not too happy with me at the moment."

"Can you blame her, Peter?"

"No…but I think she understands why I'm doing this."

"I don't even understand why you're doing this," Neal retorted. He would have explained his confusion to Peter, but his attention was drawn away when of the strike team member laugh raucously.

"So…what do you make of the GST?" asked Neal.

"GST?"

"Gilead Strike Team."

Peter shrugged and sipped his coffee. "Pretty much what I expected. Outsiders. Probably keep to themselves, depend on themselves. A little anti-social…"

"Don't play well with others…yeah, I get that."

"Only trusts their own. But they look capable enough."

"If you mean scary…"

"I do."

"I gotta admit, as much as I agree with El…I'm actually relieved you're going along, Peter. If only to have someone to talk to occasionally."

Peter smiled.

"I'll tell you a secret, Neal. As unpredictable as all of this is, I'm kind of looking forward to it. I miss the old days. I miss the Bureau. The undercover ops. The gun, the badge, the whole gestalt. I miss the gang."

"I know, Peter. I can't tell you how many times Jones or Diana have crossed my mind. Even Hughes. I always liked Hughes."

"He liked you more than he wanted to."

To that, Neal could only smile.

"It'll be good to feel like an agent again. To have a purpose."

"To purpose," said Neal, holding up his coffee mug.

Peter smiled and clinked his mug against Neal's.

"And for the record, Peter, combat fatigues suit you," Neal said with a touch of his old Caffrey smile. "You should wear it more often."

"Seriously?"

"Full metal Burke."

"You don't look half bad yourself."

"I make it work."

They laughed, or tried to. The heaviness of the moment returned like a blast of cold air when Dr. Aram entered and did her own version of the finger point.

"Well then," said Peter standing heavily, "let's get this crazy show on the road."

~WC~

There were streaks of light in the sky, indicating the rise of the sun.

Two vehicles stood waiting to be occupied. One was a mid-sized Mack truck with dark green and black canvas flaps and thick rope ties. This is where the supplies, once gathered, would be stashed and secured.

The other vehicle was a 40-year-old, souped-up RV with wrought iron bars soldered to the frame.

The strike team members were already loading their guns and stowing their provisions and personal gear aboard the RV.

This was a milk run for them, Neal thought. Another day in the life of Gilead's protective force. They knew the drill – what to do, what they needed, how to get it done. Now if only he and Peter could figure it out.

"May I have everyone's attention?"

Dr. Aram stood by a small trashcan fire. She was dressed in the same olive drab as the rest, but regardless of her attire, Neal noted, she would always look like a scientist. Her long black hair was pulled back, braided, and wound into a tight bun.

Aram waved them all over to join her by the fire. Sparks flew up and sputtered out in front of her eerily in the pre-dawn breeze.

"Has everyone met?" she asked.

No one spoke.

"Then let us quickly get the introductions out of the way, shall we?"

She looked at Neal.

"I'm Neal. Neal Caffrey."

"You the Monster Boy?" said a stocky man with spiky white-blonde hair.

"I'm not sure what that means, but guilty as charged, I guess" said Neal.

"You don't look like much to me."

A half dozen responses rolled through Neal's mind, but he chose only to shrug. Best not to start the trip by pissing off the heavily armed guys too early.

"His survival is the most vital part of the operation," Dr. Aram said. "Under no circumstances should he be left alone or left behind. No matter the situation, or his condition, he must be brought back to Gilead."

Peter looked at Neal, as if to silently ask, " _Did she really just say that_?"

Neal shrugged again.

"Dead or alive," a tall black man with dreads spoke while chewing on a toothpick. He regarded Neal with keenly bright hazel eyes that almost seemed surreal. "Got it."

A chill ran down Neal's spine. What would they do to his body if he died on the mission?

 _Cut him up six ways to Sunday and…_

"I'm Peter. Peter Burke."

"Peter is a former FBI agent," Aram interjected, or more like, interrupted, "and he is quite familiar with a wide range of tactics and weapons."

"Yeah?" the shortest member of the team spoke, his Brooklyn accent strong and evident. "Evah use wunna deese?"

Brooklyn pulled from his belt and tossed to Peter what looked like an external laptop battery. The former agent caught it deftly and gave it a quick look.

"Hmm…hm…oh, yeah…Magpul FMG 9. Nice."

Peter unfolded it like a monochrome, modified Rubik's cube, opening it into a volatile machine gun.

"Nine millimeter, 30 round clip…tactical light. These were still in the experimental stage the first time I came across one."

Peter instantly folded it back up and tossed it back to Brooklyn.

"There you go, you can put that back in your pants now."

The members of the strike team laughed. A couple of them did a fist bump. Brooklyn nodded. Respect. A little, anyway.

"Nice," Neal whispered to Peter.

"Obviously," Aram said, trying to bring things back to somber order, "Agent Burke knows how to conduct himself on-mission. Treat him as you would any member of the team, except where it might threaten the survival of Mr. Caffrey. Now, if you'll kindly introduce yourselves..."

They were not much for communicating, these strike team members; Neal noted the looks on their faces when asked to do their intros. Not likely they were going to give much away about themselves. He knew he'd have to do some keen observing to figure them out and keep himself and Peter alive.

A tall black woman playing mindlessly with a butterfly knife flipped it closed and shoved it into her back pocket before saying, "Hofstadter."

She left them to wonder about her first name.

Instantly Neal thought of Diana. Hofstadter had the same no-nonsense attitude as Diana when they first met. _He truly missed her…_

Next to her, a bald young man barely out of his teens, with dark tribal tattoos encircling his head, thumped his chest twice and threw out a hand in old Star Trek Klingon fashion, which made the others laugh.

"Smalls, y'alls. That's meant to be ironic. Nobody misunderstand..."

This guy's the talker, the bragger, Neal thought, and filed that piece of information away for later.

Brooklyn shifted his position and mumbled, "Deacon."

"Also ironic!" commented Smalls. "He ain't ever seen the inside of no church on account of lightning might strike."

A man with deep dark skin and thin dreadlocks turned his piercing hazel eyes on Neal and gave him nod.

"Styx. Like the river." said the man with piercing hazel eyes, tossing his dreadlocks back.

"Point of no return, no turning back," came Smalls again.

Styx quickly corrected him. "That's Rubicon, Small Man."

"What's the diff?"

Neal spoke before he could stop himself.

"Styx is the river of hate, the way to the underworld, according to the ancient Greeks."

"What he said," Styx concurred. He gave Neal a head-nod of respect. Neal nodded back, then looked to Peter for approval. Peter tried to do the same nod, but didn't look quite as cool as Styx did. Neal made a note to tell Peter never to try that again.

Another woman, Korean and wearing a bright red Mohawk, spoke around a mouth full of apple she was eating.

"Slow-Kill." She finished the fruit, devouring core, stem and seeds all.

Stay out of her path, Neal thought and quickly broke eye contact with her.

The last member of the crew stepped close and offered his hand and something akin to a smile to Peter.

"Parrish," he said, an East Texas drawl evident. "Don't worry, there won't be a pop quiz later."

Hofstadter's eyes rolled irritatingly to the sky.

Parrish continued, moving to shake Neal's hand.

"Mr. Caffrey. Pleasure to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine.'

"Doc Aram tells us you have some kind of special ability. Can't wait to see you give us a demonstration. FYI, these soldiers here act under my order, in as much as any of 'em can take an order. We may not have all the spit and polish you'd expect from a regular army, but they'll fight like hell when you need them to. You have a problem with them, you let me know."

"Thanks," said Neal. 

Square dealer, he thought of Parrish, and hoped that whatever happened on the road, or in a skirmish, this man would not be among the first to die.

"So, now that we are all acquainted," Aram interjected, "let's go over the plans one more time."

~WC~

At the break of dawn they began loading the last of the supplies onto the vehicles. Neal helped load one- and five-gallon gas and diesel containers onto the RV, along with a few emergency medical supplies, and extra blankets.

When he had a moment alone, he hope aboard the narrow vehicle to take a look through the boxes and crates of supplies that were crammed inside, to see what was there. He was hoping to find a gun or at least a hunting knife he could conceal and carry, just in case things got out of hand.

He found filled water bottles, instant coffee, dried meat, and a few MREs. But no guns. He figured they might be onboard the Mack truck, and made a mental note to find away to check it out later.

Another crate caught his attention. He opened it and felt his stomach drop, much like experiencing an unexpected dip in a moving car.

Chains. Restraints.

Wrist cuffs and chains, connected to a belt, just like the kind one would find at a Super Max prison. For dangerous, violent prisoners.

 _Were these for him?_

"What are you doing?" 

Neal didn't startle at all, but turned and held up the restraint when he heard Doctor Aram's voice.

"Party favor? You shouldn't have."

~WC~

"You have to admit," Peter offered, "Neal has a right to be concerned."

"And I apologize," she said, "for the horrible misunderstanding. I would never do such to you, Neal. These restraints are for use only in the event we run into survivors along the way. If they are Marauders, or if they have lived with cannibals, these restraints are to protect us. To protect you."

"Why would we even consider dealing with Marauders long enough to chain one of them up?" Neal demanded.

"If they have been living, surviving this long without the virus, there is a chance that they have an immunity strain. My duty as a scientist is to seek answers that may be inside of them. However, they may not wish to cooperate."

"You can't force them," Peter shouted.

"I have no intention of forcing anyone. But if they wish to come back to Gilead, we will have to maintain some kind of control, but only if necessary. Please, I've been at this much longer than either of you. Trust me."

Peter nodded. Neal held out for a few uncomfortable beats before handing the restraints over to Aram.

"All right then. Let's roll," he said.

Aram accepted the chains and headed for the RV.

Peter moved close to Neal to whisper.

"How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"A while."

They both smiled uncomfortably.

"I'm going to go say goodbye to El and…"

They both froze when they saw Elizabeth walking toward them. She was holding little Neal, and wore a leather bag across a shoulder.

She handed the baby to her husband.

"Be careful Neal," she said, and gave her dearest friend a hug and a chaste kiss upon the cheek. "Keep an eye out for Peter."

"You know I will," he said, and kissed the top of her head. She smelled of sweet coconut oil and fresh rain.

When Elizabeth let him go, Neal reached over and took his little namesake's hand. He had no words. And he knew he needed to give the Burkes some time alone.

He headed off, climbing into the RV and closing the door.

It was just the three of them.

Peter held his son close to his face, pressing his lips upon his little forehead and not moving for a while.

 _Let this not be the last kiss I ever give my son_ , he prayed, _but the first of hundreds more._

A tear rolled down Elizabeth's cheek as she moved in close, leaned against her man, and wrapped her arms around him. They stood this way for a minute, not moving, not speaking, until:

"I understand why you're going. Just please, please come back."

"We will. I promise you."

"Don't promise me. Do it. You come home, hun. You came back to me and your son."

Peter leaned down and kissed his wife. His stomach fluttered. His cheeks flushed. He could hear the sound of his heart beating.

 _Let this not be the last time I kiss my wife_ , he prayed a second time, _but the first of thousands._

When finally he pulled away, he placed his son back into his beautiful wife's arms and stared at the beauty before him.

She indicated the leather strap on her shoulder and moved so that he could remove the bag.

"It's just a few things for the two of you. A little extra food for the trip. And I made cookies. Well, the best I could with what was available, what they could ration."

"I bet they're delicious."

"Neal took care of us. Take care of him."

Peter nodded.

"And when you come back, Peter Burke," she said in low, suggestive voice, "I'm gonna make you never want to leave me ever again. Got that?"

"I can't wait," he said with a salacious smile.

The Mack truck started, firing to life, engine revving. Time to go.

"I love you!" Peter said. No abbreviations today. "I love you."

"I love you more," she said, tears streaming.

She held up little Neal's hand, made his little pink, balled fist wave.

"Say bye-bye to Daddy. Say bye-bye. He'll be back soon…God, please let him come back soon."

The RV engine ignited. Peter moved quickly, stealing one last quick kiss before turning and running toward the RV.

El watched, fighting the desire to give into despair as the two vehicles pulled off the grass and onto the narrow, two-lane road toward the unknown.

 **END CHAPTER 8**

 _Thanks for reading. Don't even know if, after all this time I should even finish the story. Let me know…I will finish it if anybody's actually reading it. BTW, Chapter 9 is done. Will post it within the hour. !_ _ **Please**_ _ **review.**_


	9. Chapter 9

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 9

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar so much…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for horror and violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

 _Note: Sorry for taking months to update, but once in a while life gets turned upside down. I expect to have this series finished by Halloween '16._

~WC~

They'd been on the road for over two hours, and the morning sun was strong and bright. Neal sat across from Peter inside the cramped little RV. It was actually kind of nice, despite age, wear and tear. It smelled of old gas and mildew, but there were actual seats, and Neal could see the road quite well from a barred window. So far, their journey had been quiet and uninterrupted. He found himself dozing off a few times, his body making up for the sleep lost the night before.

Hofstadter drove the RV with Slow-kill at her side, while ahead of them, Parrish drove the Mack Truck with Styx riding shotgun, and Deacon and Smalls in the back.

Dr. Aram sat at the small corner table in what was once a kitchen area, writing in a large journal. Maps marking their various routes and possible detours in red, black and blue ink were laid out before her.

"We have already gone five miles farther than we've ever ventured," Aram said, breaking the silence. "Not since the forming of Gilead. You're making this possible, Neal."

Neal shook his head, not comfortable with her comment.

"We still don't know for sure if I'll have any effect."

"We will know soon enough," she stated confidently.

"As soon as the soon goes down. And the beasts come out to play."

Aram watched the road passing before her.

"We will be coming up on our first stop soon. Pray we do not run into Marauders."

She returned to her journal, but wrote nothing more.

Peter saw something flash in Neal's eyes, saw his friend's body flinch as if suddenly, unexpectedly receiving a shock, at the mere mention of Marauders. He'd done the same thing earlier.

He knew instantly that Neal's mind had stumbled dangerously into traumatic territory.

"It's gonna be okay," he said in a low, quiet voice.

"Yeah," said Neal. "Yeah. Whatever you say."

~WC~

Another hour passed, and Neal had fallen into a light slumber, head bobbing as the vehicle drove across the deserted asphalt. Doctor Aram was still immersed in her work.

Peter opened the leather bag that Elizabeth had given him. He smiled when the first thing he pulled out was a crumpled picture of her. Thank goodness she had had the presence of mind to rescue the picture from his wallet, which was in the pants he was wearing when they first arrived Gilead. Surely they had burned their old stuff, and this would have gone up in flames with it, had his brilliant wife not been so proactive. He touched the image of her smiling face with his forefinger, and sat it aside to dig for more treasure.

Another piece of paper. He unfolded it and smiled, almost cried, to find inky foot and handprints of his son.

He took out the cookies, which were wrapped in meat packing paper and tied with a string. He could smell the sweet treat through the paper.

His hand hit something familiar. A small can. Deviled ham. Gilead had deviled ham. Peter laughed and sat it aside, hoping to save it for the trip home.

Next he found a bottle of scotch. It had been opened, but only a ounce or so was missing. He and Neal would enjoy this later.

And then his hand hit something that was all too familiar to the touch. The moment his fingers rested upon it, he knew exactly what it was, and a he held his breath as he removed it.

It was his badge…his FBI badge.

Peter held it to his chest, remembering…

 _The 'ding' of the elevator…the smell of the air…the bitter taste of old coffee…the sound phones ringing…the shimmer of the glass walls…the pull of the badge and the weight of his service weapon…the excitement of the chase…Jones and Diana…Neal, sitting at the desk by the door tossing a ball made of rubber bands to kill the tedium…_

Days of glory, days of purpose, all shattered by a microscopic, lab-grown virus.

Lastly, Peter found a note, and opened it to read.

" _Dearest,_

 _I'm depending on you to come home to us. After everything we been through, after everything we've done to survive, you have to know I'm not ready to give you up. Please, hun, do what you must, but don't do anything stupid. Don't make life harder for your family than it is already. This may sound harsh and selfish, but I hope you understand how desperate I feel at this moment. Help Neal, but don't sacrifice everything for him. Don't throw your life away. We need you, too. I'm sure if you asked Neal, he would agree. Come home to us. Do whatever it takes to come home alive to us._

 _Love always, E._

Peter looked over at Neal, just as he was readjusting his position and blinking back to wakefulness.

"What?" Neal asked sleepily.

Peter held up the can of deviled ham.

"Great. Can't wait to smell that."

Then he held up the bottle of scotch.

"Nice," said Neal, and closed his eyes.

But he didn't go to sleep again.

"Peter…"

"Yeah?"

"I meant to say something earlier… If things go south…if it comes down to you or me…"

 _How could he have known?_

"Neal…"

"Listen, Peter..."

Neal opened his eyes. They seemed bluer, brighter than ever as he looked at Peter squarely.

"No matter what happens out there…whatever you do, go home to El."

"We're both going home. That's the plan."

Neal stared up at the RV ceiling, frustrated.

"Okay," he said, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would do whatever it would take to make sure Peter Burke survived.

The RV began to slow down, breaks squealing.

"Are we there already?" asked Neal.

Doctor Aram was shaken from her meditative study. She stood and moved to a window to peer out.

"We shouldn't be. Something's wrong."

~WC~

Parrish hit the breaks gently and the Mac truck slowly stopped. He had one hand on the automatic weapon across his lap. Styx was ready as well, but also kept his weapon out of view.

There was a big man standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms to stop the truck, his motorcycle lying on the ground. He was filthy with long matted blond/gray hair, a longer beard. Every inch of him cried out for soap and water. His tattered leathers were stretched thinly across his robust body. Apparently, the virus hadn't made this big man miss many meals.

"Little help here?" he called out.

"What can we help y'all with?" Parrish shouted out with fake congeniality.

"For starters," the big man said, "my bike. Had a little accident and I can't pick it up, get it back on its wheels."

"You look like a strong guy," said Parrish.

"Looks can be deceiving. Took a spill. Shoulder's outta whack. I'd've picked the sucker up and gone on my way if I coulda. All I need is a little extra hand."

Parrish looked at Styx.

"Walk out to him," said Parrish. "See what comes up."

Styx nodded, smiling, anxious for a bit of action. He placed his weapon on the floor of the cab, but felt along his back to make sure his Watha PPK was where it should be.

At the RV, Aram moved up to the driver seat where Hofstadter was sitting behind the steering wheel.

"What is the hold up?" she asked nervously.

"Can't see much from here. They're keeping radio silence. Make sure Burke and Monster Boy stay put."

Before Aram could answer, she heard the RV's side door open.

"No…Neal!"

Styx moved cautious toward the big man.

"Nice bike, or, it was."

"Appreciate your help. You got any extra food?"

"None to spare."

"That's too bad."

And then he whistled – a quick, high-pitched call.

Instantly a dozen Marauders appeared, blocking the road, a couple with hand guns, a few with nightsticks and brass knuckles.

"I like your truck," the Big Man said.

"You can have it," said Styx, "If you can take it."

The Big Man laughed.

"You implying I cain't?"

"I'm hoping you'll try."

Parrish hopped out of the driver seat, both automatic weapons in hand, and fired one into the air.

 _BRRROOOPP!_

Neal had just stepped off the RV when he heard gunfire. Peter hopped out behind him and both men took cover against the side of the vehicle, determined to see what was going on.

"Please, Neal! Come back inside!" Aram demanded in a loud whisper.

Both men ignored her.

Smalls raced to the front, weapon in hand, while Hofstadter slipped out of the cab and made her way toward the back, intent on covering Neal and the doctor.

She motioned for Peter to join her.

Four Marauders were moving stealthily toward to back, intent on stealing the RV while the others up front were occupied.

Hofstadter fired, hitting two of them, and down they fell. The other two dropped their homemade clubs and raised their hands.

Neal made his way to the front to see what the commotion was about. When he saw the Big Man standing there, hands up, he froze at first. He felt as if a knife had been suddenly buried deep into his chest. He couldn't breathe. He began to shake uncontrollably. His knees felt like rubber. But he found the nerve, the courage and the strength to run forward, straight at the man.

"YOU!" he shouted, pure rage issuing from him, his face twisted in a mask of hatred. He felt out of control, dizzy but determined.

Neal saw and grabbed the gun from the back of Styx's pants and aimed it at the head of the Big Man.

Everyone began shouting for Neal to put the gun down.

"YOU!" he repeated! "I SHOULD KILL YOU!" Neal felt spittle flying from his mouth, felt himself break out in a sweat. But he held the gun steady, his purpose clear.

As Peter and Hofstadter urged their two living captives to walk from the back to the front of their two-vehicle convoy, the former agent felt an additional rush of adrenaline when he saw the rest of the Marauders with their hands held, high all shouting at Neal.

He'd never seen his friend so livid before.

"NEAL! What are you doing? Put the gun down!"

"NO, Peter! He's the one! You know what he did to me!"

When recognition dawned on the Big Man's face, he smiled and oily, evil smile.

"I knew I knew them big blue eyes from somewhere…"

Neal fired, deliberately missing the Marauder.

"SHUT UP!"

"Neal, give me the gun!" Peter pleaded.

"He's worse than the Infected! He kills people. He hurts them for sport."

"You still mad about that?" the Big Man laughed. "I thought we was just having a little fun."

Neal fired again, hitting the ground an eighth of an inch from where the Big Man was standing.

"Cutting it a little close there, boy…"

"Neal!" Peter called out, moving cautious to his friend, "put the gun down. Let the team deal with them. If you kill that man, you're no better than he is."

"I don't care, Peter," he said, trembling with fury. "You know what he did to me, what he was going to do to you, to El, to the baby…"

"I remember. I remember. He's a piece of filth and he deserves to die."

The Big Man shifted.

"If I could interject," said Parrish, "If Mr. Caffrey has a beef with him, and wants to dust this filth, personally I got no problem."

Peter looked at Parrish as if they man had lost his mind.

"But I get the feeling you ain't never killed nobody before, Neal, " he continued. "And somehow, I don't think even this piece of trash's murder will sit right with you in retrospect. Now…why don't you give Styx his weapon back and let us take care of dispensing justice here. I promise, he won't get away with whatever it was he did. Scout's honor."

Neal trembled, eyes still locked on the Big Man.

Peter moved closer.

"Neal, look at me. Look at me!"

Neal didn't want to. But he did.

"Peter…I can't," Neal whispered. "I can't…I can't let him get away with it. He'll just keep hurting others."

"Let Parrish and his people take care of him."

Neal stared at the ground. As much as he'd wanted to ice this nightmare, he knew Parrish and Peter were right – he could not kill this man.

 _But he could wound him._

Neal fired, shooting the big man in the leg, just grazing the skin of his thigh. He was a crack shot, and knew the bullet will have done minimal damage. Once he saw the big man go down crying out like a baby, his anger dissipated. He lowered the weapon and tossed it back to Styx who caught it and gave Neal a nod.

Neal turned and trudged heavily back towards the RV.

"Somebody help me! He shot me! I'm bleeding to death!"

Doctor Aram raced forward, keeping close to Parrish for protection.

"I'm a doctor," she cried out. "I can help you. But you must promise not to hurt anyone!"

"I promise!" the Big Man shouted back, holding his bleeding wound. "I promise!"

To Parrish she said, "Have someone bring me the restraints. I think we have our lab volunteer."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And put him in the back of the Mack truck. I'll give him a sedative to keep him quiet. Keep Neal away. He may not like the idea of this individual joining us on our mission."

"He'll find out eventually."

"We will worry about that later."

~WC~

They were back on the road, back on track. Aram decided to ride in the front of the truck, to give Neal and Peter time to process all that had occurred. She understood the trauma Neal was dealing with, having heard his audiotape testimony. She had let them both know that the Marauders were sent on their way, licking their wounds, content to never show their faces again.

The Big Man, however, who went by a name so foul that she refused to use it, was sleeping in the back of the truck, chained, and under the watchful eyes of Slow-kill, Deacon and Smalls. Once they made camp, and the others were sleep, she'd start testing by drawing blood…

Peter open the bottle of scotch and sat it down at the RV's mini dining table before Neal.

His friend was still trembling when he reach for it and took a long pull, nearly emptying it.

"Thanks," Neal said, just above a whisper.

"You okay?"

"I will be. You understand…?"

"I do. You won't get a lecture from me."

Neal took another drink.

"You wouldn't have done it, though. Would you, Peter? You wouldn't have shot that man."

"You barely hit him."

"Doesn't matter. I still pulled the trigger. I wanted to kill him."

"To tell you the truth Neal, I don't know what I would've done..."

Neal offered the bottle to Peter. He took it and drank from it, then sat it upon the small tabletop.

Peter placed a supportive hand on Neal's shoulder. But Neal flinched, and caught himself.

Peter removed his hand quickly.

"I'm okay," Neal confessed, hoping it was true. "I'm okay."

~WC~

THE COMPLEX

They stopped at the perimeter of the giant mall's parking lot. Abandoned cars were scattered haphazardly about. It appeared all of them had already been pilfered several times over by passersby for gas, parts or for whatever meager supplies could be gleaned from inside trunks and glove boxes. Now they sat forgotten, rusting in the rain, baking in the sun, freezing in the cold.

The team quickly jumped from the truck, weapons at the ready. They fanned out and cased the area quickly and efficiently before they let Neal, Peter or Aram out of the RV.

"Clear!" Parrish cried out when he was satisfied they were safe.

Aram allowed Neal to help her step down. Peter geared up, checking the mag in his weapon and his secondary gun, and making sure the knife he kept concealed in his boot was reachable if close quarter combat was necessary.

He had that old familiar look about him, Neal noted. That Peter Burke-is-on-the-job look…that pinched faced expression that said he was in full FBI mode, and distractions would be neither entertained nor tolerated. It was moments like these, Neal knew, that Peter was a man fully alive.

It was much the same for him, only it was the art of the scam, the sting, the con…the thrill of zip lining into a dark museum, beating the security system and walking away with the prize. It was…

"It's already after eleven," Aram announced, "which means we have less than six hours before we lose the sun. Sounds like a lot of time but I promise you, it won't be."

Parrish stepped up, ready to take control.

"This location may have already been swept clean, but let's grab whatever is left and get it stored, then we'll figure out where to set up camp for the night. I want Hofstadter on point, Styx on my six. Slow-kill and Burke, stay on Caffrey and the Doc. Smalls, on the rear with the flatbed cart. Deacon, you get to stay with the truck. Use the radio if you need to, but keep it off if you don't. I don't want anybody picking up on our frequency and crashing our party. You see hide or hair of a Marauder, I don't care what the good Doc says…you shoot first and ask questions later."

~WC~

When Neal saw that the metal door louvers protecting the Mall's main entrance had been ripped open and peeled back like a giant tin can, it made him shudder. He hoped no one noticed, especially Peter.

"Yep, definitely Fecks," said Styx.

"Fecks?" Peter asked.

"The Infected," Slow-kill said.

"They may have cleared out by now," said Parrish.

"Or," came Smalls, "a whole horde could be in there just waiting for us."

"Well," said Neal, "only one way to find out."

~WC~

They made their way with great caution across the dark mall's first floor, following the beams of flash lights that seemed to fall short, stepping over trash, half-dressed mannequins and various plastic and plaster body parts.

And rats. Lots of rats.

"That's a good sign," Aram whispered.

"What?" asked Neal.

"Rats…live rats…it's a good indication that the Infected are not present or in large numbers. The vermin avoid them pretty much the same as we, for the very same reasons."

"Rat-tat- tuie!" Smalls said, not bothering to whisper.

"Shut yer trap," Parrish ordered.

"Sorry, boss."

The atrium smelled of dust, mold and neglect. It was musty and sour and every sound echoed and reverberated through the cavernous mall, all the way up to the upper floors. As they moved past still escalators toward the middle of the Complex, it gradually became lighter. All looked up to find a dirt-covered sky light. A bit of sunlight still filtered through, allowing them a moment save their batteries and turn off their flashlights. It was also easy to see how much more mall and darkness was ahead of them.

"Not much we can use here," said Parrish. "Toy store. Small grocery store looks like it's been sacked. Even the shelving's gone. Big department store's straight ahead, all the way to the end. We're gonna have to clear some serious darkness to get there."

Parrish turned to Neal. "Guess it's time for you to earn your keep, Caffrey. Show us how you keep the boogie man away."

Neal swallowed hard, his heart thumping in his chest.

"Got a suggestion. I say we start at the top, work our way down," he said.

No one agreed with Neal.

"I figure, anyone who's come to forage here wouldn't have made it past the second floor. I doubt they would have been as well armed or trained as your crew. If they were scared, they would've grabbed whatever they could get on this floor, as close to an entrance as possible, before high-tailing it out of here. That's what I would've done. Which means, the top floors could yield a little more."

Dr. Aram nodded in agreement with Neal.

"Okay," said Parrish. "We go to the top, work our way down."

"Wait," said Neal, and gave the first floor a quick look around. "Lemme borrow a flashlight…."

Parrish nodded to Smalls, who surrendered his flashlight to Neal.

He ran the beam across walls until he found what he was looking for and took off. Peter was right behind him.

"Neal! Neal, wait! What are you doing?"

"Looking for a circuit breaker, or some sort of secondary power-on switch. There has to be a…yes!"

Neal found what he was looking for – a metal panel with small door. Peter broke the wire lock that kept it closed and both men began flipping switches.

The mall was now bathed in soft white light.

They waited. If there were any "Fecks" around, they would have reacted immediately to the light. Their screams would have been unmistakable, their rage unbearable…

Neal breathed deeply, and so did Peter, when they simultaneously realized they were, for the moment, safe. They rejoined the group, and Neal handed the flashlight back over to Smalls. Giving the group one of his patented smiles, he said,

"Let's rock."

"You've been waiting to say that, too," said Peter.

"Yeah, a little bit," he confessed.

~WC~

Dr. Aram was pleased – Neal was right. There was a sporting good store and kids' clothing shop on the third level, along with a small pharmacy and a chocolatier, all of which had barely been touched.

They loaded camping gear - thermal blankets, hurricane matches, lanterns and sleeping bags as well as gloves, warm hats, down coats and other garments onto the flatbed.

They found jeans and tee shirts that could be worn by anyone and tossed them onto the pile.

They found first aide equipment at the pharmacy, including several dozen bottles of rubbing alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, pain relievers, vitamins and liquid cold remedies, ace bandages, and baby formula.

Across the way was a dimly lit food court. Chairs and tables had not been sat in for ages. Coke machines stood like old soldiers, lights blinking sporadically, waiting for someone to use them.

Neal moved toward the New York Pizza Brothers. The look on his face – that of someone who may have stumbled upon a cache of diamonds – dumbfounded Peter, as well as the rest of the foraging party.

"I don't think nobody's taking orders today," Smalls called out.

"Neal," Peter called out, cautioning him. "Wait! Don't go running off…"

Neal didn't listen, but instead jumped the counter and went towards the back, to the kitchen area.

"You better go git yo boy!" Smalls said to Peter.

The older man shook his head and leapt the counter, grateful that he cleared it in front of the audience of soldiers.

~WC~

Neal was moving around the semi-dark pizza kitchen, smiling as if he'd struck oil.

"Neal…"

He opened the walk-in refrigerator. The smell of old, rotting food assaulted them immediately, making both men gag and turn away in search of air that had not yet been fouled by the spoilage.

"It's safe to say," Neal said when he got his breath back, "there won't be any mozzarella."

"Neal, let's go. There's nothing here."

"Sure it is, Peter! Look, you want to go foraging for food, where do you go?"

"Grocery stores, convenience stores, gas stations…"

"Right. But not the mall pizza shop."

Neal pointed to the metal shelves above them. There was row after row of oversized cans…crushed tomatoes, sauces, olives, extra virgin olive oil…huge canisters of spices, salt, peppers in sweet brine, boxes of yeast, five pound bags of dried pasta stacked high, vacuum packed sacks of pepperoni. And near the floor, several ten pound bags of flour.

"It's not much variety," said Neal, "but it's a good start. Something tells me the people of Gilead wouldn't turn down a pizza, even if it didn't have cheese."

Peter slapped his friend on the back.

"This is great, Neal. Let's check the other kitchens and see what else we can find."

"But don't open the walk-in."

"Good plan."

~WC~

When they'd loaded all they could carry onto the flat bed, Neal could not help but smile. He even offered to make the first pizza when they got back to Gilead.

Dr. Aram was quite pleased.

"You are a very resourceful man, Mr. Caffrey. Now, the problem is, how do we get all of this stuff down to the first floor."

"I've been thinking about that," said Neal. "There has to be a freight elevator somewhere."

~WC~

They found the freight elevator in a back hall where naked florescent lights flickered unceasingly, and unfinished walls and floors once provided access for workers to the back of the various small restaurants.

Peter pressed the button, but nothing happened. They waited, hoping to hear the motor grind to a start and the sounds of cables moving the car up to them. But they heard nothing.

"Maybe we could lower it down," Peter offered.

"We can't do much of nothing until we get these doors opened," Parrish offered, then yelled to his crew, "Let's get this thing pried open!"

Smalls and Styx went to work, prying the double doors apart while Hofstadter prowled a short distance away from them, keeping watch, ready to shoot anything that moved.

Using knife blades and sheer strength, Styx and Smalls managed to pry the freight elevator doors apart an inch, then foot.

"Almost got it," said Styx.

"You ain't got squat!" Smalls said through grinding teeth. "I got it…"

"Shut up, both of you," Parrish commanded, and moved in to assist.

He shoved his shoulder through the opening and put his back into it.

Neal reached out, both hands upon the left sided door, pulling. Peter took the right.

The doors parted completely and remained open, revealing not an elevator car but an empty, concrete shaft that lead untold stories downward into darkness.

"Flashlight," Parrish ordered, and Slow-kill slapped one immediately into his hand.

He shined it below, the beam sliding over the cinderblock walls, past heavy cables, barely making it to the bottom.

"What do you see?" Smalls asked.

"Shh! Listen!" Neal said harshly. Everyone looked at him for an explanation.

"You can't hear it?" he whispered.

All became quiet, tuning their ears toward the open shaft.

Neal felt adrenaline stirring in him. Fear was rumbling deep in his gut, making his heart pound fast.

 _Why couldn't they hear it?_

He grab a flashlight, hoping the beam would travel that extra length of the empty shaft so that the could see…so that they could see…

The beam touched something round and dark, then another, then another…

Heads…all close together, in a circle…breathing, panting…six of them…

"Fecks!" Smalls cried out.

One of the Infected looked up and screamed when Neal's flashlight beam shined directly into its eyes.

Then all of them looked up and howled.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Parrish yelled.

All pulled back from the elevator, but the doors slammed, trapping Parrish between them. Neal grabbed Parrish by the arm and pulled while Styx and Peter both fought to open the doors and free him.

 _Something from the other side of the door, from the shaft, was pulling even harder._

The beasts inside the elevator shaft were leaping – taking turns - and pulling at Parrish.

The sound of the man's flesh rending, ripping, tearing…the sight of blood spurting and spraying them all, would haunt Neal and the rest of them forever.

Parrish went tumbling down the elevator shaft.

Peter reached out to grab him…missing the man…and losing his own footing…

"NO, PETER!" Neal cried out!

Momentum sent Peter falling into the shaft, right behind Parrish.

Neal grabbed Peters hand, held onto it for dear life, with every ounce of strength in him.

" _PETER_ …! Someone help me!" he cried out for the others.

He felt Peter's sweat-slicked hand easing out of his own, felt the pull and weight of gravity…

Peter looked up into Neal's eyes…knew that this moment was his last.

" _It's okay, Neal…it's okay…"_

"NO!"

One of the Fecks leaped like a demonic thing, and grabbed hold of Peter's leg…

Neal screamed, his shredded voice reverberating through the elevator shaft as he watched Peter's face diminish into the dark chasm.

There was only one thing left for Neal to do.

He jumped into the shaft.

END CHAPTER 9

 _Yeesh. I hope you liked this chapter. If you did, even a little bit, I hope you'll review. Promise to have this finished before Halloween._

 **I'm immune, he's not immortal."**


	10. Chapter 10

WE ARE LEGEND II: A BALM IN GILEAD

Chapter 10

by

Lacadiva

Disclaimer: I miss White Collar SO much that I…oops, sorry, wrong disclaimer. No infringement is intended by the production of this story.

Rating: PG13/R for horror and violence.

SUMMARY: _AU - Neal, Peter and Elizabeth journey in search of the promised safe haven in Vermont, but it's a long, soul-shattering journey…and winter is coming…and so is El's baby. As if things couldn't get worse, Neal gets bitten by one of the Infected…_

 _Note: Sorry for taking FOREVER to update, but I started a full-time job that makes it nearly impossible to find writing time. It's a shame, but I like eating and having a place to keep my stuff. I will try to do another chappie before Thanksgiving, and finish it up by Christmas. In the meantime,_ _ **Happy Halloween**_ _, everyone!_

~WC~

 **From the previous chapter:**

 _One of the Fecks leaped like a demonic thing, and grabbed hold of Peter's leg…_

 _Neal screamed, his shredded voice reverberating through the elevator shaft as he watched Peter's face diminish into the dark chasm._

 _There was only one thing left for Neal to do._

 _He jumped into the shaft._

~WC~

"CLOSE IT! HELP ME CLOSE IT!" Smalls screamed stridently. He threw his whole body into forcing the double doors shut, grunting and panting wildly.

"No!" Aram ordered, "I must see…!"

"See what?" yelled Styx. "Ain't nothing left to see! They're gone! We need to seal this door and get the hell out before those Fecks do!"

Aram knew he was right, but she didn't want to give up. Her heart felt torn, ripped to pieces. But there was another feeling in her gut…such a feeling. She couldn't let it go. She couldn't leave Neal or Peter behind _._

 _She had to know_ …

"Get back to the truck – now - all of you!" she cried. "Take whatever you can carry!"

Smalls didn't wait to be told a second time. He shouldered his weapon, grab a bag of flour and a pile of winter parkas and took off for the frozen escalator.

Aram turned to Styx and Slow-Kill.

"Tell Hofstadter and Deacon that if I'm not there in ten minutes, head back to Gilead as fast as you can…before you lose the sun!"

"We aren't leaving with you, Doc," said Styx.

"That's an order!"

Styx nodded before grabbing and armful of supplies and taking off after Smalls.

Aram cringed when she heard the Infecteds screaming wildly below, their high pitched, animalistic wails grating against her breast bone and assaulting her ears like sonic nails down hell's chalkboard. She hoped that her grand experiment had not just come to a premature and massively bloody end.

Aram turned to see that Slow-Kill had remained.

"What are you waiting for? Go!" Aram cried.

The soldier hefted her assault rifle and took a defensive stance, ready to cover the doctor should a Feck make its way from the dark pit of the elevator shaft.

"Let's get your Monster Boy."

Doctor Aram was grateful.

 _No one wants to die alone._

It occurred to Aram that if the men below did not survive – which was highly likely - she would inherit the awful task of explaining what happened to Parrish to his fiancé, as well as reporting the sad fate of Peter and Neal to Mrs. Burke. It would a different kind of awful when she appeared before the Committee to explain all the manpower and resources wasted on her horribly failed mission.

Why had she believed so completely in Neal Caffrey?

She grabbed a dimming flashlight from the floor and shined it down the shaft, and hoped that what she saw – if anything - would not be the very last thing she would ever see.

~WC~

Darkness claimed him for what could have been a second or an hour. He knew nothing until his mind could reboot and begin to process the screeching noises…

 _INFECTEDS!_

Neal came around quickly and was both grateful and terrified that he could not easily discern the profound state of jeopardy he was in.

What he could very nearly see was Parrish laying in pieces upon the floor, limbs freshly torn off and tossed about the elevator shaft. A bloody partial leg rested near where Neal lay, and it was all he could do not to cry out and push it away. Instead he chose to focus on the more pressing threat before him.

He realized that he had fallen heavily upon Peter, who mercifully and frighteningly had not yet moved or uttered a sound. Conscious or unconscious, he knew Peter was still vulnerable to the extreme in their current situation. They were both as good as dead.

 _Or were they?_

He expected the Fecks to have attacked by now…saw in his mind's eye how it would happen…felt their hands grabbing him, dragging him…saw their teeth and could smell the creatures' fetid breath…

 _Why hadn't they attacked?_

It was too dark to see, too dark to…

Then his eyes _adjusted_. It was sudden, thought subtle, like the flipping of a soft switch.

Whatever was murky or cast in dim shadow, now stood out in stark, sharp contrast. Too sharp! Neal could see with cold, crystal clarity the beasts that were screaming in the darkness.

Six Fecks were fighting each other, frantically trying to scramble up the concrete wall of the elevator shaft, which was already slick with old grease and what Neal could only imagine was blood.

Most of the blood belonged to the Fecks.

They were ripping and tearing at each other, bloodying their own hands and feet as they fought and struggled to make it to the top. But like fat silverfish in a clean, dry bathtub, they kept losing ground and sliding back to the bottom…either from the slickness of the concrete or from being pulled down by one of their own infected brethren, all determined to climb upon the backs of its fallen comrades for any leverage they could get.

They were terrified, fighting to get away from Neal.

He took a moment to take swift inventory of Peter, now that he could see him. His friend was beginning to regain consciousness; a good sign, he hoped. The agent's left leg was twisted at a slight but disturbing angle, which mostly likely indicated a broken limb.

Neal felt along the extremity and confirmed it. He also found and extracted a long knife that Peter had shoved down his left boot. Handy.

Peter's eyes fluttered open and panic claimed his face as he strained to see.

"Keep still!" Neal ordered him in a harsh whisper. "I got this."

And then he stood, Peter's knife firmly in hand.

He watched the mad and frantic spectacle of the Fects for several seconds, completely without a clue of what to do. So he did the one thing he knew he could do.

"STOP!"

And they did.

They _DID_!

The echo of his voice was still reverberating in his own ears longer than it took for the creatures to obey him.

All but one dropped to their knees in some odd form of submission, ducking, covering their faces, their eyes, mewling and pleading for mercy.

The sixth one - the Alpha - fell back on his haunches and growled as if about to pounce on Neal in attack.

"STAY!"

How stupid, Neal thought fleetingly. But then, the Alpha-Feck obeyed, backing down and crouching and looking away like a bad dog caught chewing on its master's leather shoe.

Another thing occurred to Neal to try. He had no clue if it would work, but he thought it worth a try. What more was there to lose?

"Kill them," he said to the Alpha-Feck, indicating the kneeling Infecteds, using the tip of Peter's knife to point them out.

The Alpha-Feck hesitated for a moment. But only a moment. Then it snarled demonically and leaped.

Not upon Neal.

It grabbed the first kneeling Feck and ripped its throat out with its own teeth. Blood poured from the Alpha's mouth while the injured Feck screamed and writhed on the floor before it died.

When the other Infecteds began to howl in protest and grief, the obedient Alpha-Feck turned upon them. It grabbed two of them and smashed their heads together with such force that Neal could hear the muted cracking of their malformed skulls. Alpha then turned to the last two, and in quick succession, broke their necks with a twist and a wet snap.

The panting, murder-charged Alpha-Feck turned triumphantly back to Neal, as if expecting to be praised or rewarded for a job well done. It seemed as if it desperately wanted to please Neal, show off its strength and usefulness, that it was worthy of being spared from death.

Neal felt an odd compulsion to laugh.

Instead, he buried the knife into the beast's head and watched it crumple to the floor.

Neal felt dizzy...odd...powerful...

 _What just happened?_

His mind was reeling, his head was spinning.

 _What the hell just happened? What the hell AM I…?_

His gut was awash with something that made his gorge rise, and instantly he turned and violently vomited as far away from Peter's prostrate form as he could.

"Neal…"

Not much came up – not much was down there. Once his dry-heaving subsided, Neal shuddered, spat and wiped his faced with a sleeve.

It was only then that he noticed the thin, yellowing flashlight beam strafing the floor and walls of the elevator shaft, finally fixing on him. He looked up and saw the shocked and startled faces of Aram and Slow-Kill, watching him.

 _They had seen everything._

A nod of acknowledgement, and Neal returned to Peter, triumph and fear both hankering for dominance in his brain as well as on his face.

Peter was shivering. Shock was setting in. But the look on his face spoke more of the horror he'd just strained his eyes to witness, than his injury.

"Neal...what the hell…what the hell? That thing… _obeyed_ you!"

"Let's get you outta here," he said, trying to sound reassuring, wanting to avoid the subject. "We can talk about it later."

"Did you know…?"

"No, Peter, I didn't! Let's just go…"

Neal felt around Peter's leg again, trying to ascertain the severity of the injury.

"Neal…you had to know something…OW!"

"Yep…it's definitely broken," said Neal.

"Thanks for the update," Peter said with clenched teeth and attitude. "You knew."

"I suspected…"

"That's why you jumped down behind me…"

"I fell."

"Don't lie to me, Neal! It was stupid and reckless!"

"It was the right thing to do! The Fecks are dead. We're alive. Let's get you on your feet before Aram leaves us behind."

"Oh, they're not going anywhere without you! Not after what just happened. What about Parrish?"

Neal shook his head. Peter needed no further explanation.

"Doctor Aram," Neal cried out to his witnesses above, "I need something to stabilize Peter's leg!"

A few moments later, Neal heard, "Head's up!"

From above, as if they were in the middle of an old Greek play, something fell from the heavens and slammed upon the floor, followed by another thing which made a softer landing and unfurled.

Neal grabbed what had been thrown to them: a wooden replica of a Louisville Slugger, and a long coil of rope.

"That'll do," he said. "One improvised leg splint, coming right up."

~WC~

They made their way back to the Mack truck and RV quicker than Neal imagined they would, highly motivated and driven by adrenaline.

He helped Peter down to the ground, and the good Doctor, with Deacon's help, began treating Peter.

"We should put him on the back of the truck," Neal offered, breathing hard after half-carrying Peter the entire way.

"No!" Aram said too quickly, remembering that the hateful marauder who had brought Neal so much grief was no doubt abuzz with pain medication on the back of the truck. No sense in stirring up any more trouble…

"Let us take care of Peter," she said, hoping to reassure him.

"Okay," said Neal. "I want to go back."

"To the mall? Why?"

"We left an awful lot of stuff behind. Besides, after what just happened…I'm pretty certain I'm safe."

Aram considered it. It would keep him occupied while she decided how to handle the ramifications of Neal's - for lack of a better word - power, and what needed to be done with Neal to ensure everyone's safety.

"Go," she said.

"Be careful, Neal," he heard Peter say between clenched teeth.

Neal nodded, then took off running back in the direction of the mall.

"Go with him," the Doctor said to Slow-Kill, "…but watch your back."

~WC~

The Big Man was good a playing dead.

He kept his eyes closed and body still whenever Deacon was watching him, but he listened to and absorbed everything within earshot…

He heard their complaints – no one completely trusted anyone. He heard their plans about the supplies being taken back to some place called Gilead. Knew that their weapons were hi-tech, and he planned on stealing as many has he could get his hands on. He heard their fears – that this was a heavily infected area and that by nightfall, it would be a blood bath unless someone called "Monster Boy" proved to be the real deal. More importantly, he'd heard that Neal was this Monster Boy, and that there was something special about him that kept the real monsters away.

 _Exactly what he needed. If it was all true._

Why, he'd be virtually invincible.

 _If it was all true._

It was all he could do to keep from smiling when they carried semi-conscious Peter into the truck and placed him just a few feet away from him. They guy was pretty busted up, from what he could tell by listening. He'd spare him a quick look when he felt it was safe. This guy would be his ticket out. He just needed to play possum a little longer…

~WC~

When Neal and Slow-Kill returned dragging the flatbed with three or four months' worth of supplies and warm clothing, Neal was surprised that no one made much of their impressive haul. It seemed like everyone was staring at him.

"What?"

He offered to help load the goods to the back of the Mack truck, but Hofstadter and Deacon were suddenly flanking him. Both were armed. Aram approached, suspiciously holding something behind her back.

Something was very wrong.

"What?" Neal asked again nervously. "Did something happen? Is it Peter?"

Aram said nothing.

"What's going on?" Neal demanded.

"Easy, Monster Boy," said Hofstadter.

"Doctor Aram…"

Aram revealed what was behind her back.

A covered syringe.

"I need you to listen to me, Neal…"

"Nadira…wait…!"

He used her first name strategically, hoping to finesse her out of what she was apparently about to do.

She flicked the plastic cap off, letting it fall to the ground. The needle glinted even in the thinning light of the afternoon sun.

Neal took a step back, held up a hand.

"What…what is that?"

"Only a mild sedative to calm you down."

"I don't need to calm down! I am calm!"

Neal realized that his words didn't sound very calm at all.

"I am not doing this to hurt you, Neal. But I am responsible for the safety of everyone on this mission. What happened back there, what you did…. "

Neal looked over his shoulder and saw that Slow-Kill was now holding her weapon on him too, ready to shoot if commanded to do so.

"It was a fluke!" he pleaded in his defense. "I didn't even know I could do that! I don't even know what the hell I did!"

"We'll have plenty of time to figure it all out, Neal. But now is not the time."

"I am not a danger to anyone…!"

"You might be. Until we know for certain…please, Neal..."

Neal took a step back. One more step back and he knew he would feel the muzzle of Slow-Kill's weapon jabbing him between the shoulder blades.

"We do not yet know the extent of your power."

"You don't think…you can't think I'd turn _those things_ on us? There's no way!"

"Try not to even think about that, Neal! Who knows what might happen? What happens if you should become angry?"

"Like now?"

Neal regretted the two words the moment they leapt from his mouth. It wasn't helping his situation. Slow-Kill moved closer. In a beat, he saw that all of the soldiers had lifted their weapons, prepared to fire.

 _Prepared to kill him_.

"What am I, Nadira?" he begged, before he could stop himself.

"That is what I need to ascertain. But I need time…and I need you to cooperate. Please, Neal. Why would I hurt you? You are the only means to our survival. Please."

Aram took a closer step forward. Neal didn't move. It wasn't because he remembered the guns pointing at him. He knew she was right. Even he didn't know what this…power… could mean, or what he could do. He closed his eyes, calmed himself so that his voice would be a little more soothing.

"Do it," he said.

"Thank you," said Aram.

Neal pulled up the sleeve of his left arm, balled his fist, and offered his trembling arm to Aram. He watched her as she gently slipped the needle into his vein and stood back, as if afraid Neal might suddenly lash out. He didn't.

He looked down at his arm and stared at the tiny pinprick of blood resulting from the injection, then back to Aram.

"When you wake up," she said, "we will talk. I will tell you everything. I promise."

Neal nodded, and allowed Hofstadter to escort him back to the RV.

~WC~

"What kinda chicken-crap outfit is this? This ain't no way to treat nobody after they been shot! This is downright in-hu-mane!"

The Big Man had not stopped complaining since "coming to." He knew he could wear just about anybody down with his non-stop litany of pain, suffering, paranoia and self-pity. His leg ached like a toothache, but he'd put up with so much more. Neal had only grazed the man's leg; the wound was superficial. Barring any severe infection brought on by the stench, grime and filth he had allowed to overwhelm his person, the Big Man knew that he was more than likely going to be just fine.

"Please take these chains offa me…I'm too weak to hurt nobody. All them drugs they done pumped into my system's left me weak as a little baby kitten."

Deacon smirked.

"Shut up! I'm sick of listening to you!"

Though they held the uncooperative marauder in chains, he was still difficult. He started his whining campaign, making a nuisance of himself a couple hours ago, and he hadn't stopped yet. Deacon found the biker funny, laughing at his fits of cursing and screaming at first, but now, like Hofstadter, he was more inclined to put a bullet in the man's head if he didn't shut up.

Deacon saw Smalls walking by and called the younger soldier over.

"Change of plans, Smalls," Deacon ordered, "you get the duty."

"I thought I was supposed to walk the perimeter!"

"Not anymore."

"Why I got deal with psycho-biker-dude?" cried Smalls.

"'Cause I got seniority." laughed Deacon, as he slapped a key into Small's gloved hand.

"What's this?" asked Smalls.

"It's a key, idiot. To the chains. Doc wants you to take him out to the trees before Monster Boy wakes up. She don't want them to see each other."

"This sucks," Smalls whined.

"Yeah, well, suck it up, soldier. I gotta take a break from all that mewling. Keep him quiet. He gives you any trouble, you got my permission to put another bullet into him. And no matter what, keep him chained up. Don't let him out for nothing. Got it?"

"What'd you give me the key for?"

"If the Doc says take the chains off, you take 'em off, smart boy!" Deacon said, pointed condescendingly to his head.

"But you just said…"

"Smalls! If the doc says take the chains off, you take 'em off. Otherwise, don't. Got it?"

"I ain't stupid!" he said, shoving the key into a zipped pocket on his left thigh.

Smalls knew the drill! Hated when people told him the same things over and over, as if he were too dumb to comprehend. Hated when people treated him like he was an imbecile. Hated it…

"Out of the truck, Stank-man," he gestured with his Watha PPK.

"You gonna shoot me? Might as well shoot me now. I ain't never leaving his truck."

Smalls stood waiting, wishing for any other duty. Except, maybe, going back to that mall...

"Look, old timer, I ain't got all day. You gonna have to pee eventually. Let's go."

The Big Man made a big deal about moving…

"Oh, oh the pain…sweet mother nature, the pain…"

…and insisted that Smalls help him climb down from the truck. Smalls didn't move. The marauder worked it out, and made it safely to the ground, but not without another round of whining and complaining.

"This don't make sense! Y'all ain't fed me," the Big Man claimed as they walked out to the forest of trees across from the parking lot.

"Prisoner's 'spose to get fed, even in the army that's a thing. You a soldier, ain't you, youngster? You 'sposed to know these things!"

"Yeah, bite me, Stank-man."

The Big Man stopped.

"You gonna hafta take these chains off me, youngster. I can't do my business all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey."

"Forget it."

"C'mon youngster, spare me the indignity of goin' in my pants."

"Like that's gonna make you smell any worse?"

"Please?" the marauder begged. "I ain't got the strength to do mucha nothing. That Doc Aram shot me up with so much stuff I cain't barely think to run. I cain't hardly put my left foot before my right! At least take one chain off my hand so I can tend to my business…"

Smalls though it over. If the fool was going to run, he would have tried it already. Besides, he was hungry. He'd said so himself. Wouldn't he at least stick around until they'd fed him? By then, he'd be somebody else's problem.

"Okay, look, you try anything, and I will shoot you in the head. Got that?"

"I sure do," the Big Man said with a horrible smile.

Then he head-butted the kid so hard, it made his own vision dance and see stars.

Smalls dropped to the ground and the Big Man made quick work of a checking the kid's pockets for the key. He also spied the kid's Watha PPK.

"Like your hardware, son," he said.

~WC~

By Aram's orders, they would remain in the parking lot for the night. The early darkness that always seemed to chase them had now descended upon them.

Neal woke up but it took longer than usual to pull himself together. Dull light hurt his eyes, shining from a battery-operated tabletop lamp shaped like an old kerosene lantern.

Hofstadter was cleaning one of her weapons while keeping a close eye on Neal.

"Hey," he said, and tried to sit up. His body protested while his brain still swam, an after-effect of the sedative, no doubt. It was better to lie still.

"How's Peter?" he managed to ask.

Hofstadter said nothing, but continued to strip, oil and polish her weapon.

Neal fought to focus, shifting his weight to his side to better watch his watcher.

Hofstadter smile. "What? Never seen a woman field strip her weapon before?"

"Kind of reminded me of someone I used to know. An FBI agent. Diana. She was a lot like you."

"You mean gorgeous, right?"

"Yes, and classy, and dangerous. I respected the hell out of her. One of the few people I could ever trust with my life."

Neal smiled as old memories of the life before began to unfold. But he stopped the memory short. It did little good to rehash the past, dig up old pains and losses.

Neal forced himself to sit up.

"Where's the doctor. I need to talk to her."

"You'll get your chance."

"How about some water?"

Hofstadter tossed Neal a plastic bottle of water. He barely caught it. He discarded the top and drank the entire contents, felt it icing through his parched body, reviving him.

"Look," said Neal, "I'm not going to hurt anybody. You don't have to watch me like I'm a two year old. And I really do need to talk to Doctor Aram."

"The Doc says she'll talk to you when she's ready."

"When will that be?"

No answer.

"I need to know..."

"You and everybody else, Monster Boy."

"Don't call me that," Neal said. He found that even more offensive than being called Mr. Caffrey. "My name's Neal."

"My guns say I can call you whatever I want."

Neal backed down, tried to relax on the lumpy, makeshift cushion that masqueraded as a mattress.

"They tell you what happened in that elevator shaft?" he asked tentatively.

"I heard."

"You wouldn't know anything about it, would you? Maybe heard the doctor talking?"

"That's way above my pay grade, _Neal_."

"You could speculate."

"I could."

"So?"

"I'd say..."

Neal sat forward, prepared for her take on what happened, worried that her conclusion would be the same has his, or worse.

"...Doc says she'll talk to you when she's ready."

She resumed cleaning her weapon - discussion over.

Neal turned to the window, unable to see much more than his own wretched reflection.

"What did it feel like?" Hofstadter asked, jolting him back from his brief revery.

"Scary," Neal said. Then, "Powerful."

The woman nodded. "Guess you weren't immune after all."

Of all the thoughts racing through Neal's head, this one he dreaded the most. He felt his gut twist and eyes water with the idea, and he had to struggle to find his voice again.

"What do you mean?"

Hofstadter merely shrugged and returned her attention to the stripped down weapon before her.

"I mean…maybe you aren't all human anymore."

Someone knocked on the RV's door, startling them both, causing Hofstadter to reach for the pistol she kept in her boot. A warning to Neal and whoever was outside.

"Time to get answers," she said.

Fear made him shudder.

~WC~

Neal – with Hofstadter covering behind him - approached the campfire where Aram sat with Styx and Slow-Kill working out the logistics for the next day.

"Give us a moment, would you?" Aram said, with a noticeable dose of exhaustion in her voice.

Hofstadter, Slow-Kill and Styx wandered off into the dark. But not far.

Aram gestured, and Neal sat upon the crate Styx had just occupied. He leaned forward, his eyes an odd amber-bright in the light of the conservative campfire.

"What the hell am I?" he asked.

 _Am I a monster?_

Silence, but for the crackle and pop of damp kindling in the fire.

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Silence again, and Neal felt his gut clenching nervously.

Aram stoked the fire with a thick branch, watching as bright embers danced in the air and disappeared.

The silence was broken by the distant wail of Infecteds. A lot of Infecteds.

"They are gathering, no doubt to mourn their dead. That's the one thing we seem to have in common with them. They care about the ones they lose, just like we do. But that is about the only similarity. They are encircling our encampment, but they won't come very close. Unless, of course, you tell them to."

The doctor tossed the stick to the side.

"What happened in that elevator shaft?" he asked.

"What do you think happened, Neal?"

He thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully, hoping not to further indict himself.

"It was like…I could _push_ them…not just with words, but with… _my mind_ somehow…like an instinct. It felt instinctual to me. I don't know what prompted it… I didn't know what else to do…Peter was in trouble. He was going to die unless I did something. And then…. What the hell am I, Nadira?"

"First, I will tell you what I know. Then, I will tell you what I _believe_ ," said the Doctor.

Another distant wail, and Aram search through the darkness for movement - a reflex.

"I know that the Krippin virus was born in a top-secret military laboratory in Baltimore. I know that it never had anything to do with cancer, either curing it or obliterating it. The fact that it effectively killed cancerous cells, even reversed stage four, terminally ill patients, was merely a happy accident, an unexpected bonus. It created a more palatable way to increase funding from Congress and provided a more positive public image. Once-sick children languishing in hospitals and older patients in incomprehensible pain from inoperable tumors, miraculously began rising from their beds with renewed health and vigor, returning to their families. They became the new faces of Krippin...and the world celebrated, desperate to believe that we had finally turned a corner. We had found a cure for man's most pernicious, most dreaded disease.

"I argued that our announcement was severely premature. Unfortunately, I was right. Krippin's virus was always and primarily a military operation, a two-pronged weapon, an elegant solution to modern warfare. Our smart weapons would no longer be hardware, but wetware - _people_."

"I'm a weapon….you said I was a weapon."

"I thought so, at first. But now it all makes sense. The Infected are the weapon. _You are the hand which controls the weapon_."

"I don't understand…how?"

"I don't know. But _I believe_ it began at Rikers."

"Tell me what you know."

"I know that between 2007 and 2009, a small, controlled group of Riker's inmates, mostly non-violent individuals like yourself, were clandestinely given several different strains of the Krippen virus. Most of them died. You were one of the lucky ones. More or less."

"More or less?" His heart began to beat faster.

"Before you could be tested further, you escaped."

"Was I infected? Did I...was I...was I a carrier? Was I responsible for...?"

Aram reached out and touched Neal gently, reassuringly, upon a hand.

"No, Neal. You were not responsible for the outbreak. Yours was not a communicable strain."

Neal took a deep, shaky breath. The thought that he could have been somehow responsible for the spreading of the virus would have virtually torn a hole through his soul.

"So then," Neal continued, "I was a failure."

"On the contrary, you are a monumental success."

"I don't understand."

Doctor Aram gave him an odd smile before continuing.

"Imagine winning a war without ever firing a single shot, or deploying aircraft or ships. No bombs, no fall out. Imagine if all you needed to do was send one infected person – Patient Zero – across the enemy's border… If, within 36 hours, more than half the population of an entire country the size of our own could be infected, and that within a week, said country would be overrun with what we call Darkseekers…Fects."

"What good would that do? How do you conquer a country that's filled with infecteds? We can't beat them! You'd have to…"

And then it all fell into place…finally made sense to Neal.

"…send in…me."

"…to control what's left of the population," Aram finished. "It wouldn't take many of you, merely a few dozen, to take control, clear the way, and claim victory. And when the air and the water and the soil and the trees are clear of the virus, the Infected ones are disposed of, and the land is yours. A peaceful, deadly efficient solution."

"But it backfired," said Neal. Silence between them, but for the distance howling of the Fecks.

"The virus was unleashed, and mutation after mutation resulted in this broken world."

"So," he said finally, "what's the verdict? Am I a monster?"

"You are certainly one of the infected."

"What does it mean? How long have I got?"

"I have no answers. We will have to find out…"

Silence again.

Until a shot rang out, piercing the air. From somewhere in the trees…

Neal instinctively grabbed Aram and threw her to the ground, covering her with his own body.

The soldiers all fanned out, searching the darkness for the shooter, firing a few rounds into the direction of the trees hoping to flush the shooter out, make him reveal himself.

"Nadira, are you hit?" Neal asked breathily.

"I don't believe I am. You?"

"No…"

And then they heard _him_.

"I'm coming out, don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

The Big Man was making his way back, weapon held under Peter's chin, holding him against him as a shield.

Hofstadter and Deacon raised their weapons to fire.

"DON'T SHOOT!" Neal screamed when he saw Peter.

The former agent could barely stand; he was weak from pain, medication and fever; his broken leg was splinted and he couldn't put weight upon it without agony. If the Big Man let him go, Burke would surely hit the ground. That wouldn't be painless either.

"That fat sucker's mine!" Styx cried out.

"You wanna chance hitting Mr. Broken Leg here, go ahead, shoot!" the marauder laughed.

"What do you want?" asked Neal.

"You, Blue Eyes."

Neal felt a chill wrap around his spine and squeeze…

He stepped away from the campfire, making himself visible…a target.

"That's right, Monster Boy…that's what they call you, right? Move on out where I can take a good look at you…"

"Here I am!"

"We got some unfinished business, you and me."

"Let Peter go!"

"I will. But you gonna hafta come with me."

"No!" screamed Aram.

Neal felt light-headed, nauseated. He knew this wasn't going to end well.

"I heard say you got some kinda talent for keeping them Dark-Seekin' freak shows away. I need protection. And lawd knows I sure wouldn't mind the company…"

"I'm not going anywhere. Let Peter go…"

"I could just put ol' Peter outta his misery…"

Peter was in misery, Neal could tell. He was sweating, shivering.

"Okay! Okay…I'll come with you!"

"Aw, see? I knew we could come to some agreement!"

And then somebody fired.

 _Who fired?_

Neal couldn't see who it was. His focus was on Peter. He ran forward, even though after that one shot came dozens. He was too focused to care. Too focused on Peter.

 _Don't try anything…!_

Despite his condition, Peter did, effectively pushing himself away from the marauder and taking cover on the ground.

Neal ran for him, reached out for him…

 _PETER!_

…Until he felt one of those bullets hit him…

Neal didn't remember falling, but he could hear someone screaming when he realized he was on the ground.

 _Nadira…it's okay…_

Warm, sticky fluid was running down his side, from somewhere…his belly. No, his chest.

The marauder had shot him in the chest.

He couldn't breathe…he was gasping for air…

 _Lung…heart…?_

He heard gunfire continuing, but it sounded soft, muted to his ears.

He also noticed that the stars were distinctively bright, so very bright. He never saw stars like this in New York, even on the clearest winter night.

 _I think I'm dying…_

When the gunfire stopped Neal thought he heard someone calling his name.

It was Nadira. She was leaning over him, crying, trembling, hands trying to stop the bleeding and give him CPR at the same time. There were other faces over him, but they all seemed quite fuzzy and gray.

 _Am I dying?_

He couldn't die. Without him, there'd be no protection against the Infected…

But he was so tired. So very wanted so much to give into the idea, just let go, lean into it. How bad could it be? After everything he'd been through…after every

…

…

…

…

…

SEVENTEEN MINUTES LATER

Neal gasped when he woke up, fighting to breathe.

Five faces were staring at him. Five faces staring in shock.

"What?" Neal asked. His throat was dry, raspy. His chest hurt, his head hurt…

Nadira tried to smile, but it was quite apparent she was afraid.

It was Peter who spoke. Solemn faced Peter. Eyes red and glassy from tears, lip quivering.

"Neal..."

"What?"

"You _died_."

Neal needed a moment to contemplate the thought.

"Seriously?"

END CHAPTER 10

Happy Halloween! If any part of this story moved you or entertained you, I hope you'll comment with a review. That would be such a gift. Thank you!


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